


All the Right Things

by Raine_Wynd



Series: Without Love [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexuality, Clan Denial, Communication, Explicit Language, Explicit Sex, F/M, Falling In Love, Foul Language, Friendship, Immortality, Loyalty, M/M, Marriage, Multi, Novella, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Richie Lives, Secrets, Swearing, Threesome - F/M/M, Trust, Voyeurism, Watchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-07-31 12:51:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20115391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raine_Wynd/pseuds/Raine_Wynd
Summary: When Richie falls in love with a polyamorous couple, he's torn between the dream they're offering him and the secret he needs to keep.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wallowing in old fandom love while I wait for the next fandom to hit me like the penguin I totally don't need to have but must own anyway. :-)

#### Saturday, July 27, 2019

Gravel crunched under Richie’s motorcycle tires as he carefully navigated the long, winding path off the state highway to the farmhouse. He was abruptly grateful he had sprung for a brand-new gold-and-silver BMW R1250 GS Adventure motorcycle; the higher clearance and overall design of the adventure-style motorcycle meant he was not as worried about its ability to handle the gravel as he might have with his old Honda CBR.

The area was a mix of horse farms and country estates; Richie was not surprised to see that Theo Prescott and his wife lived out this way. Half a mile passed before Richie pulled up next to the line of cars and motorcycles in the driveway. To his left was the house which looked huge. A massive stone chimney clung to the side of the house; something about it made him think the house was not that old of a structure. It looked like a modern interpretation of a farmhouse, if the residents were not much into farming and more into having a showpiece of a home.

Telling himself not to judge, Richie took off his helmet, gloves, and his overpants. Vanity had him checking his hair in the mirror; he brushed a hand through it, hoping it would suffice. Unlocking the trunk of his motorcycle, he set his helmet, overpants, and gloves down in it, then locked the trunk before unzipping his jacket in deference to the summer heat.

Pressing the doorbell, he waited. Theo opened the door. “Hey, you made it. Welcome to my home. Are you a hugger? I like to hug people, but my wife reminds me I have to ask people now.”

Grinning, Richie opened his arms and met Theo’s hug halfway. “Better to ask than to offend someone. Thanks for inviting me.”

Theo was a barrel-chested man with a long beard. Not for the first time, Richie thought he looked like a dwarf from some fantasy movie. He was in his late fifties. Theo was a business systems consultant who had invested heavily in Microsoft and Apple stock before it had become fashionable. Richie and Theo had met because Duncan had needed someone to set up the computer system for his latest dojo; Theo had been the consultant Duncan had hired. Neither Richie nor Duncan had expected Theo to issue an invitation to attend a summer party at his home, but Theo had done so, claiming they seemed like decent people he wanted to get to know now that his business was concluded.

Theo grinned now as he stepped back from the hug. “Hang your coat in the closet to your right. Living room is around the fireplace to your left – mind there are three steps down, not two – and kitchen is to your right. Bathroom is the door underneath the stairs in the left corner of this floor. We have two cats wandering around here. You aren’t obligated to pet them but please don’t feed them anything, and don’t let them get out, either. They’ll try to convince you they are absolutely starving and need to get out. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“I’d love a beer if you have one to spare,” Richie said as he took off his coat and hung it on the hanger he had found. He doubted he would need his sword today while he was in Theo’s house, but he reassured his sense of paranoia by reminding himself he had a knife stashed in his left motorcycle boot.

Theo grinned. “Coming right up.” He waited until Richie had hung up his coat before leading him into the kitchen, where four women were cooking and talking. At Theo’s entrance, the women turned to check out Richie.

“Ladies, this is Richie Ryan, from North Seacouver Martial Arts. Richie, this is my wife, Michelle,” Michelle waved; she was on the end, stirring a slow cooker, “and our friends, Tracey, Jane, and Liz. Don’t worry, we’ll quiz you later.” Theo rummaged in a large cooler set on one end of the kitchen island and came up with two beers. “Ale or porter?”

Richie barked a laugh. “Ale, please. I save the porter for when I’m not eating anything else. That chili smells amazing.”

Michelle grinned. “I learned all I know from Food Network. We’ll eat soon. Delara and Patrick are bringing barbecue ribs and Sarita said she’d bring something vegan. Do you have any allergies?”

“Only to mean people,” Richie joked as he took the bottle Theo handed him.

“Amen to that,” Jane echoed as the other women and Theo laughed.

“Well, make yourself at home,” Michelle told him.

Richie nodded, and headed down into the living room, where a small cluster of people were chatting and talking. He introduced himself, got to know some people, and let himself fall into the rhythm of the party.

Three hours later, having feasted on ribs, a plethora of salads, and several other dishes he could not remember as being anything other than delicious, Richie stepped out of the house onto the back deck to get a breather from the crowd that had gathered. Theo’s house was large enough to handle the sixty people who had gathered to celebrate summer in the Pacific Northwest. Richie’s head was full of names and faces, and he wanted a moment alone. From what he could surmise, the party would go from midafternoon, when he had arrived, to past midnight, or whenever Michelle or Theo kicked out the last guest.

He heard the sliding door open and glanced over his right shoulder to see a tall woman with ombre-red hair step out, carrying a bottle of beer. She was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Her hair’s dye pattern faded from red to blonde and her hair hung in soft waves to the middle of her back. Her skin was the color of wheat. She had a sharply angled face with striking features, a prominent bustline, a thin waist, and wide hips on a medium frame. Richie had always appreciated physical beauty, but what captivated him was the aura of confidence and vulnerability she projected. Then he read her T-shirt, grinned, and fell deeper into lust. The graphic on her T-shirt was that of a black cat holding a humerus bone; the caption read, “I found this humerus.”

“I like your shirt,” he told her.

She flashed him a smile. “Yours intrigues me,” she countered. “What is Le Sanctuaire?” She pronounced the French flawlessly.

“It’s a high-end nightclub in Paris, France,” he told her. “I worked there for ten years as its lead bartender, but I was getting burned out, so I came home.”

“I always wanted to go there, since I learned French,” she admitted, “but never committed to going. What made you go?”

Richie grinned. “My legal guardian took me there when I was eighteen. He still had legal custody of me, so it was go with him or be homeless again. I didn’t relish the thought of being out in the cold after having gotten used to having a bedroom, a roof over my head, and food I didn’t have to steal.”

Her green eyes widened. “You’ve lived an interesting life, then. I’m Delara Mewsewa.” She flashed a smile. “Yes, I’m of Persian heritage, but my parents fled Christian persecution while my mom was pregnant with me, so I’m more American than Persian. They insisted on assimilating, but they also insisted on teaching me Farsi and about our culture, so I grew up with one foot in both.”

“Richie Ryan,” he said, as he shook her hand. “I take it you get asked that a lot?”

“More than I should, because I look exotic. It’s why I dye my hair,” she agreed. “How do you know Michelle or Theo?”

“Theo consulted on a business software suite for my former legal guardian,” Richie said. “Theo said he liked to invite people to his parties.”

Delara laughed. “Yeah, he does that. He likes to throw them and have a ton of people over. I usually get exhausted at some point and have to escape the room or the house.” She sipped her beer and made a face before looking at the label. “This label lies. Hints of ‘cherry chocolate’ my ass.”

“That the cherry chocolate porter someone was raving about?” Richie wondered.

“Yeah. It’s awful. Have you had it?”

“I smelled it; it smelled awful.”

She eyed him dubiously. “You can tell by the scent?”

“I mentioned I was the lead bartender for a nightclub,” he returned evenly. “Part of my job was figuring out what to order. All the distributors wanted to get their stuff in our club, since we were one of the top nightclubs in the city.”

“How do you do that and not become an alcoholic?” Delara wondered.

“Self-discipline,” Richie offered. “And I don’t enjoy being that out of control. I saw what it could do to people. I like the taste of alcohol and I have definite preferences, but I refuse to let it become an addiction.”

“Good for you. Besides France, have you traveled anywhere else?”

Nodding, Richie said, “Spent several years riding my motorcycle through the US, down to Mexico and across Central America. Used to think it was cool to ride up to Canada and ride across the border, but that was a long time ago. Also did the Casablanca, Morocco to Berlin, Germany route a few times. What about you?”

“Iran and Canada, but the only country in Europe I’ve been to is Germany. I work as a translator, and my company sent me there on a work trip and I didn’t have any time to do much exploring.”

“Would you like to go back?”

Delara shook her head. “Not really. If I’m paying for it, I’d like to go somewhere else. What I saw when I was there didn’t grab me.” 

Sensing that topic had been exhausted, Richie asked, “How do you know our hosts?”

“They’re friends of my parents,” Delara said, lifting one shoulder carelessly. “I’ve grown up knowing them like family.”

Before Richie could say anything to that, the sliding door opened again. A broadly built man with tanned skin, dressed in a short-sleeved button-down shirt and khaki shorts, stepped out. His walnut brown hair was cut short on the sides and fluffed at the top. He had the look of a man who worked out to keep fit but was not a bodybuilder. When he turned to face Delara and Richie, Richie saw the stranger had an oval face with a wide forehead, a wide nose, high cheekbones, and small lips. Though the stranger had shaved, stubble had formed. Richie smiled in appreciation; he preferred men who were built like this man.

Interest and gratitude flashed across the other man’s face as he realized Richie was checking him out. Then he put his arm around Delara, kissed her, and Richie’s hopes of gaining more than a friend sank.

Unwilling to show just how disappointed he was, Richie kept smiling. _At least we can be friends, _he consoled himself. _It won’t be the first time I’ve contented myself with appreciating how beautiful my friends are._

Delara made the introductions. “Patrick, this is Richie Ryan. Richie, this is my fiancé, Patrick Wirtz.” To Patrick, she said, “We were just talking about travel, and working for friends and family. He works for his former guardian at a martial arts dojo.”

Patrick whistled softly as he shook Richie’s hand. “Props to you, man. I couldn’t do it, as much as I love my friends.”

“It’s not for everyone,” Richie agreed. “I’d feel out of place if I didn’t know my boss that well. What do you do?”

“I’m a mechanical engineer,” Patrick said. “The firm I work for does a lot of work in healthcare and commercial properties. Is that gold-and-silver BMW motorcycle out there yours?”

“Yeah, it’s mine,” Richie admitted. “Do you ride?”

“Used to,” Patrick admitted. “Broke my ankle five years ago and decided that was enough of that. Is that the new R1250?”

Richie nodded. “I traded in an old Honda CBR1000F on it. I got tired of leaning over the tank, especially on hot days.”

“Was it expensive?” Delara asked.

Richie shrugged. He could have gotten something used for far less than what he had paid, but he had saved enough money from his years in Paris he had wanted to splurge. “I ride every day, in all kinds of weather and sometimes across country, so I wanted something that could handle that kind of riding.”

“Being a dojo manager must pay well,” Patrick commented. “Last I looked, one of those BMWs was about $24,000.”

“Almost my entire salary for a year,” Richie agreed evenly. “But I’ve been saving up for a while and didn’t want to deal with having to fix yet another thing on the motorcycle I’ve had for over a decade.”

“I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t afford it,” Patrick apologized swiftly, and looked stricken by embarrassment. “I just – damn. I don’t know how I can unstick my foot from my mouth.”

Seeing his sincerity, Richie forgave him. “It’s okay. People look at me and think I’m in my twenties and therefore either stupid, broke, too young, or some combination of all three.”

“You’re not in your twenties?” Delara broke in. “I thought – well, if you’re older than 22, damn, you look fine. I’m 36; Patrick’s 38.”

“I’m 44.” Richie waited expectantly for the predictable reaction.

“Damn. Your parents must have looked young forever,” Delara exclaimed. “Wait – you said legal guardian, that means your parents weren’t around.”

“Worked out,” Richie offered, unwilling to go into details. “My life would be different if I knew who my parents were.”

“I’m not sure you missed much,” Patrick noted wryly. “Mine are currently overly invested in when Delara and I are getting married.”

“Which is?” Richie prompted.

“December 7,” Delara said. “I like his parents, but they have this idea that we’re horrible heathens for wanting to go to the courthouse, get married, and then throw a party for everyone.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It means they can’t make us get married in the church I grew up in,” Patrick said, grimacing. “I grew up on fire and brimstone and being gay or different is a sin. Even as a kid, I didn’t like what I was hearing, so I stopped going.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Richie deadpanned. “I like the pageantry and the structure of organized religion, but I believe in an unspecified higher power.”

“Us too,” Patrick agreed. “Listen, I hate to say this, since I think we could keep talking, but we really need to get going. Our house is in the northeast end of Seacouver.”

“Oh, over in Cedar Hills or Rosewood?”

“Cedar Hills. Do you know the area?”

Richie nodded. “The dojo I work at is in Ridgecrest, on the other side of the lake from Cedar Hills.” From where they were, it was a forty-five-minute drive. “I should get going myself; it’s been a long day.”

“You can follow us out to Highway 2,” Patrick offered, referring to the main artery that served this rural area. “That way, you’re not relying on your motorcycle’s headlight to see your way out of here.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Richie said gratefully. As experienced as he was, gravel roads in the dark were challenging, and a guide out with better lighting meant he was less likely to miss the turn.

Delara asked, “Can we get your number and email so we can stay in contact after this? Theo doesn’t remember names and faces until he’s seen you multiple times. I enjoyed talking with you. We host a Friday night dinner with friends; you’re welcome to come if you’re not busy. We usually have six people besides ourselves, sometimes more, sometimes less.”

“I’d have to see if I can get off work, since the dojo is open on Fridays, but I’d like to attend that,” Richie said, and spent a few minutes exchanging contact information before grabbing his coat from the closet. After saying goodbye to Theo and Michelle, Richie exited the house, put on his gear, and then followed Patrick and Delara’s Prius out to the highway.

Delara, who was riding in the passenger seat, waved goodbye to him as he took the turn that would lead him to downtown Seacouver, where he had a fourth-floor condo in a twenty-unit historic building known as the Wilburton House.

Half an hour later, he parked his motorcycle in its assigned space in the public garage across the street from the building and headed up to his place. Once inside his condo, he stacked his helmet, gloves, pants, and boots in the shelving he had set up in the coat closet, which was just past the doorway. After removing his sword and his phone, he hung up his motorcycle jacket in the coat closet and took a moment to remove his backup knife from the sheath in his left motorcycle boot.

The condo belonged to Duncan, who had used it as a rental property for years before offering the use of it to Richie as part of his compensation for running the dojo. At twelve hundred square feet, the two-bedroom, two-bath condo sprawled across the back corner of the building and featured a balcony off the living room. The floor plan had the guest bedroom and guest bed on the left side of the open-floor-plan kitchen/dining room/living room; the master bedroom suite was on the other side. Duncan had changed out the original carpeting to hardwood floors throughout, except for the kitchen and bathrooms, which had tile. He had helped Richie pick out furniture, since the apartment Richie had rented in Paris had been fully furnished, which resulted in a mix of modern and vintage furnishings.

The corner unit meant he had a lot of natural light in the living room and master bedroom, but he had shut his blinds, and it was after midnight. Flipping on the light in the master bedroom, Richie set his sword in its place on the hooks he had hung beside the bed and put his backup knife on the nightstand, then glanced at his phone. Seeing he had a text from Delara, he checked the message, providing him with the address and time for dinner on Friday. He quickly texted back his thanks and that he would let them know if he would come to dinner.

As he got ready for bed, Richie considered the possibilities. He had learned that while he could live comfortably by himself, limiting his social contact to a handful of friends, he did better if he had more people in his life. He had, however, been hoping to find a lover – someone who wanted a longer-term relationship, someone who could handle his energy, passion, intensity, devotion, and immortality. He had had several long-term relationships in Paris, but nothing had lasted the way he had hoped. The two relationships where he had been willing to disclose his immortality had ended – one over his immortality; the other, his overall unavailability because of his long hours as a lead bartender at Sanctuary.

_Maybe, _he told himself, _this fledging friendship will turn into something good._

* * *

Across town, Delara looked at her fiancé as they got ready for bed. She texted Richie their address and the time of their Friday night dinner party, not expecting an immediate reply, and then set her phone to night mode before setting it down on the nightstand beside the bed.

“What did you think of Richie?” she asked him as she undressed, trading the clothes she had worn to the party for a lightweight, hip-length tank top.

Patrick smiled as he pulled the covers back on their king-size bed. “He’s very pretty,” he told her. “What did he tell you about himself?”

“He’s lived an interesting life,” Delara noted. “He was homeless before his legal guardian took him in, who first took him to Paris when Richie was eighteen. Richie said he was the lead bartender of a high-end nightclub there for the last ten years. I got the sense he’s done a lot of traveling.”

Patrick slipped into bed as Delara did the same. “You’re attracted to him.”

Delara turned to face her fiancé. “And you aren’t?” she asked archly.

Chuckling, Patrick kissed her. “Yes, but when haven’t I been attracted to a pretty redhead? Especially one who rides motorcycles and isn’t some religious fanatic?”

Delara laughed. “Is this a newfound fascination, hmm? I’ve met the last two guys you were with; they weren’t redheads or motorcyclists.”

“Ok, ok, you’ve found me out. I was checking him out before I stepped out on the porch. I could totally develop a fascination for him. He has such an enthusiasm for living – did you notice?”

“I did.” Delara kissed Patrick. “Let’s see how he does with Loriann, Riker, and Sharon on Friday, and go from there.”

Nodding, Patrick agreed, then reached back to turn off the bedroom lights.


	2. Chapter 2

#### Monday, July 29

North Seacouver Martial Arts was open between 1 pm and 8 pm on weekdays and 9 AM to 1 pm on Saturdays. The single-story building was in a popular family-friendly urban neighborhood. After buying it in February and hiring a contractor to build out the space, Duncan had set up the space so he could run concurrent classes in separate studios and have locker rooms for men and women. Duncan had hired six instructors to help him teach the classes. Richie was the dojo’s business manager. The dojo had a lobby/check-in area with built-in storage closets for martial arts training supplies, with the locker rooms on either side. A hallway split the two studio spaces. Both of the studio spaces had glass walls on the lobby and hallway sides, with blinds for private instruction sessions. The hallway then dead-ended, with a small janitor's closet for cleaning supplies, and the rear emergency exit door. The rear parking lot could hold sixteen vehicles.

“How did Saturday night go?” Duncan asked as he and Richie got the dojo ready for the day’s classes.

“Great party, lots of people. You should go next time,” Richie replied as he switched on the computer in the dojo’s lobby. “I’m invited to dinner Friday night. Any objection if I leave before the last two classes? Delara and Patrick live over in Cedar Hills.”

Duncan grinned. “No, go have fun. I was wondering when you’d return to the guy I knew.”

Richie barked a laugh. “What, the guy who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants and had zero capacity to realize when he was being fed a line?” Seeing Duncan’s teasing grin, Richie reminded him, “I haven’t been that guy in twenty years. Besides, Delara and Patrick are engaged. How did your date go?”

“She wasn’t looking for someone beyond a night’s pleasure,” Duncan said, shrugging. “You were right: that app wasn’t where I should look for the woman I want.”

“Told you,” Richie said as he typed in the login for the dojo’s computer. “Nobody uploads those kinds of photos if they’re looking for someone for longer than a fun time.”

Duncan grimaced and set the broom he had been using back into the storage closet. “I think I’ll go back meeting people in person.”

“Oh, running accidentally into people?” Richie teased back. “Or jumping onto boats?”

“It worked out for me and Tessa,” Duncan riposted.

“And how many times since then? Even Amanda found someone else, and it doesn’t look like she and Nick will break up soon.”

“Let’s just focus on the dojo,” Duncan said hastily.

Richie smothered a smile as he loaded the dojo’s registration database. A specialty app on a tablet served as the participant sign-in sheet and connected to the database which flagged any new, unpaid, or overdue accounts. The ultramodern system meant Riche could get through the evening’s classes with a lot less frustration over having to decipher handwriting on a sign-in sheet or remembering who owed money and who didn’t. Besides processing the registrations, Richie also processed accounts, paid bills, responded to social media, cleaned the studio, stocked the locker rooms, and promoted the dojo. He enjoyed the work, finding it a pleasant change from being Sanctuary’s lead bartender. Duncan paid him an above-average salary for someone in his position, recognizing that Richie was skilled enough to work anywhere.

The older immortal had bought a building much like his setup in DeSalvo’s, but the seller had backed out of the deal, forcing Duncan to find another space to set up as his business and residence. Duncan had then found a two-story apartment in a building three blocks away from the dojo. The commercial space below his residence was a vintage clothing shop with a recently renewed ten-year lease, so he had honored that existing agreement, and bought a separate building for his dojo.

Richie was grateful that the dojo and Duncan’s residence were both seven miles away from his condo. It meant that he had distance from his work, which made going to work a little more distinct in his head. It also meant Duncan was less privy to Richie’s every move, since he wasn’t sharing a residence. While Duncan had accepted his bisexuality, Richie was convinced anyone he introduced to Duncan needed to be someone important, not just his pickup of the week.

Time, as it always did, flew while the classes were in session. By nine pm, Duncan and Richie had cleaned up the locker rooms, mopped the floors, and closed the dojo.

“You hungry?” Duncan asked as Richie put on his motorcycle gear.

“I am, but I’d like to get home and eat something there, unless there’s somewhere other than Mama’s you want to go.” He named the Mexican restaurant across the street where they had become regulars. “I still have leftovers from the stew I made Sunday.”

Amused, Duncan shook his head. “You have leftovers? What happened to the guy who used to eat everything in sight?”

Riche chuckled. “I learned to pace myself and eat food that gave me better caloric value, so I wasn’t hungry all the time, just like you taught me?”

Duncan grinned. “Good. You in a rush to get home?”

“Want to do some checking on a few of the people I met Saturday,” Richie told him. “They seem like the kind who’d be active on social media.” He had set up the dojo’s social media accounts and was careful to post only photos with permission. Beyond that, his social media accounts were all tied to an email address he used as his ‘public’ email; none had a single photo of him without his helmet.

“That makes it easier to figure out if they’re inclined to post everything.”

“Or if they’re against capital punishment or have politics that don’t align with mine,” Richie added. “Some people don’t think about how much they reveal about themselves online.”

Duncan looked amused. “Whatever happened to conversations where you find that out?”

Richie laughed. “Hey, maybe they’re like me, and they only have accounts because everyone else has them.”

“Well, either way, be careful. I might be late opening the dojo tomorrow; I’m meeting with my personal banker and the meeting might run over.”

“Everything okay?” Richie asked, concerned.

“I want to pull some of my investments from companies I don’t think will be as profitable and shift them to other markets,” Duncan said. “I’d do it myself but I don’t trust the website not to lock up on me or flash the message I need to talk to a personal banker, so I might as well just go see her and have her do it.” Duncan paused before asking, “Are your finances okay?”

“Yeah. I learned my lesson about overspending after that mess with Martin Hyde.”

“If you need anything–”

“–I’ll let you know,” Richie assured him. Richie finished putting on his gear and stepped out of the building. He heard Duncan lock the door behind him, then headed around to the back to where he had parked his motorcycle.

* * *

#### Friday, August 2

Delara and Patrick’s house turned out to be one of the old Craftsman-style homes in the Cedar Hills neighborhood of Seacouver. Richie had long admired the area, since the homes sat on an incline above the street, as if someone had carved the entire street out after the homes had all been built. A driveway led from the street to the detached garage; Richie saw it was full of cars, so he parked on the street in front. He put his helmet, gloves, and overpants in his motorcycle’s trunk, locking it.

Patrick answered the doorbell. Like he had on Saturday, Patrick wore a button-down shirt and khaki shorts, making Richie think it was his go-to outfit. Still, the other man’s fashion sense combined with how that outfit made him look like he was a male model struck Richie like a fist to his gut. Attraction and appreciation made Richie swallow hard. He reminded himself Patrick was engaged and therefore off limits.

“Hey, you made it!” Patrick greeted warmly. “Come on in; you can put your jacket in the corner behind the bench there, sorry but our coat closet is full–” he pointed to the space behind the couch to the left of the bench “–and when you’re ready, I’ll introduce you to everyone. Did you have any problems finding the house?”

Richie shook his head. “No, it wasn’t like finding Theo’s house was.”

Patrick chuckled. “I’d never find that place if it wasn’t for Delara, even with Google Maps.”

Richie put his motorcycle jacket where Patrick had indicated. “This is a nice house. I’ve always wondered what the inside of one of these style houses looked like.”

“Yeah, I was glad when Delara told me she liked this house. I bought it two years after I graduated college and wasn’t relishing moving.”

Richie grinned as Patrick led the way to the dining room. “You got lucky, then.”

“My aunt is a real estate agent; she helped me find it. I hope you like Persian food; Delara wanted you to taste a bit of her heritage.”

“I can’t say I’ve had Persian food,” Richie noted. “But I like food, period. The list of things I won’t eat is way shorter.” He stepped into the dining room to see that the rectangular table was set for six, and that three other people he did not know were seated. Delara, who wore a teal blue, paisley, V-neck dress, was placing a bowl full of rice pilaf on a trivet on one end of the table. Richie caught sight of her cleavage as she bent over and averted his eyes out of respect.

“Hi, Richie,” Delara greeted. “What’s on the ‘do not eat’ list?”

“Haggis, blood sausage, brains, things like that,” Richie said.

“Oh, that’s perfectly reasonable,” the gray-haired man at the table said. “I wouldn’t eat those either.”

Patrick interjected, “Riker, your idea of ‘perfectly reasonable’ is highly suspect. You just don’t like food prepared by people you don’t know.”

“True, but given how many times I’ve had food poisoning, you’d get to a point where you’d be like that too,” Riker countered.

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Uh huh. Riker, Sharon, and Loriann, this is Richie Ryan. Richie, this is Riker Williams, his wife Sharon, and our neighbor across the street, Loriann Tansen. Riker’s a corporate lawyer, Sharon’s an ER nurse, and Loriann–”

“–married a rich man who died young,” Loriann joked. She looked like a stereotypical, upper-middle-aged, bleach blonde Caucasian woman with a tan, but she radiated a depth of wisdom that made Richie think her cracking jokes about her wealth was a calculated tactic. “I’d move, but then I’d miss out on these lovely people. What do you do?”

Seeing that Delara and Patrick would be seated at the ends of the table and that Riker and Sharon sat across from each other, Richie took the seat across from Loriann. “I’m the business manager for North Seacouver Martial Arts, which is a dojo run by my former legal guardian, Duncan MacLeod.” He flashed a smile. “Normally, I’d still be at work right now.”

Riker filled Richie’s wine glass with a red wine as Delara and Patrick brought more dishes to the table. “What kind of martial arts?” he asked.

“Judo, karate, tai kwan do, and kung fu,” Richie said. “We also offer fencing and kenjutsu in private lessons, since we’re still trying to gauge if there’s enough interest to where we add those classes. We’ve been open since April.”

“We should check that out,” Riker noted, looking at Sharon, who nodded in agreement. “Our son has been making noises about wanting to try a martial art, but you probably don’t want to discuss work stuff when you’re not at work, so if you have a business card, pass it to me and I’ll look you up later.”

Grinning, Richie extracted a card out of his wallet and handed it to Riker, who smiled, pocketed it, and continued, “And before you ask about my name, yes, my parents were _Star Trek: Next Generation _fans, and no, I don’t consider myself to be a Trekkie.”

“I wouldn’t have assumed,” Richie assured him. “I missed a lot of American pop culture growing up, and I’ve only been back in the US since April.”

“Oh, where were you before that?” Sharon asked, interested, as Delara and Patrick sat down at the table and passed dishes.

“I’ve been living in Paris, France for the last decade. Duncan asked me if I’d be interested in coming home and helping him start a new dojo. I said yes, so I’m still getting caught up on everything.”

“Good luck with that,” Riker told him, smiling. “There’s so much on now.”

Delara cleared her throat. “Okay, folks, so we have a borani-e bademjan, which is an eggplant and yogurt dip; kufteh, which are herb meatballs in tomato-plum sauce; juleh kabab, which ae spiced chicken and tomato kebabs; shirin polow, which is the rice pilaf, kuku sabzi, which is a leek and herb frittata; torshi-e piaz, which is red onion and herb pickles; and tah chin, which is baked rice with barberries. Save some room for dessert – I made ranginak, which is a date and walnut pie. Loriann, would you say grace?”

The group held hands and bowed their heads as Loriann said, “To our Creator, we give thanks for the bounty of food we are about to enjoy and for the fellowship and friendship we share. Amen.”

“Amen,” the group chorused.

Richie soon discovered Delara’s cooking was as good as some of the best chefs he had ever tasted. Conversation flowed naturally, and it was clear they met regularly, were invested in each other, and enjoyed sharing food.

Halfway through the meal, Loriann turned to Richie. “Two important questions haven’t been answered yet,” she informed him.

Richie finished eating and looked at her inquiringly.

“Are you single and do you prefer who you date?”

Richie grinned. “Yes, I’m single and bisexual, but it’s been hard to find someone who wants to put up with the odd hours I work.”

“Nontraditional hours suck the life out of a relationship,” Sharon offered sympathetically. “I work a compressed workweek as an ER nurse.” She pointed to her husband. “Riker has regular hours, so he does the lion’s share of taking care of our son. If we’d had a daughter, I’d feel worse about being a bad female role model than I already do.”

“How old is your son?”

“Eleven,” Sharon said, with a fond shake of her head. “He asked us if we’d bring him tonight.”

“No kids under sixteen,” Delara reminded her. “I love Mike, but we get into some very adult discussions over dinner sometimes.”

“No, it’s fine, Delara. I remember when you set up that rule, after Tracy brought her daughters with her and she thought she could use this dinner to teach her kids manners.” Sharon rolled her eyes. “The time to teach your kids manners is not at someone else’s house but at home, first.”

Loriann noted dryly, “Yes, but that was Tracy. She thought she was more entitled than anyone else. Didn’t she act horrified you didn’t stock diet sodas?”

“Oh, yeah,” Patrick groaned. “Has anyone heard from her? After what she did and said, I told Delara she wasn’t worth the effort to reinvite.”

“I heard Theo telling her to leave his house back at Easter and take her kids with her,” Riker offered. “Her daughters were terrorizing the cats, and she got mad that Theo disciplined them.”

“At the rate she’s going, she’ll piss off everyone who knows her in a few months,” Sharon noted, shaking her head. To Richie, she said, “Tracy’s part of a group of people Delara and I went to high school and college with. She’s always been difficult, but it’s only gotten worse since her husband divorced her last year.”

“People change after major changes like that,” Richie suggested.

“No, she grew up spoiled,” Delara said, “and her parents rarely told her no. My parents even talked to her parents multiple times, trying to get them to believe that her behavior was out of control, but it didn’t sink in.”

“And now she’s a parent too?” Richie asked. At Delara’s nod, Richie said carefully, “We have to deal with parents and kids like that at the dojo. Duncan’s very firm with them, and then they sometimes write bad reviews online about how dictatorial he is.”

“I’ll admit I don’t know that much about martial arts other than what I’ve seen on TV, but doesn’t the master or sensei or whatever you call them have final authority over what happens, so everyone stays safe?” Loriann asked. At Richie’s nod, she went on, “Then those people are idiots. Let me guess: they look at you and think you’re a teenager, too.”

“Yeah,” Richie agreed. “I’m not, and this isn’t the first dojo or fitness center I’ve helped Duncan run.”

“Age isn’t a measure of experience or maturity,” Riker offered. “I once worked for a CEO who had forty years of business experience on his resume, and he didn’t understand that if he kept calling all the women in his company ‘the girls,’ he would get a harassment lawsuit. I had to get a consultant in to explain to him in small words that we weren’t living in the 1950s, because he also thought having a corporate attorney on staff meant I would help him break the law.”

Richie widened his eyes. “What, you aren’t inclined to do that?” he teased.

Riker barked a laugh. “No. Did you want the last meatball or the last piece of chicken? I’ll take what you don’t want.”

“I’ll take the last meatball if someone passes me the barberry rice.”

Once dinner was finished, the group lingered over the table. Richie offered to help with cleanup, but Loriann told him she took care of it, claiming she needed to ‘justify her existence.’ Richie smothered a chuckle, suspecting Loriann got a lot of mileage out of her ‘poor rich widow’ schtick. Riker and Sharon left an hour later, citing the need to get back home to their son; Loriann left fifteen minutes later.

“I should get going,” Richie began, rising from the table and pushing his chair back. He stepped away from the table and picked up his motorcycle jacket, careful not to show the sheath that held his sword. “Thanks for dinner; it was delicious, and I enjoyed meeting your friends.”

Delara smiled. “You’re welcome. Before you go, though, Patrick and I wanted to discuss something with you.”

Richie set his jacket back down and waited.

She took a deep breath as Patrick’s arm came around her. “How much do you know about polyamory?”

Startled, Richie studied them and saw serious interest. “I’ve heard about it, know people who practice it, and I’ve been with people who claimed to be, but I’ve never sought a relationship with anyone who was. Why do you ask?”

“Because we are, and we’d like you to be our lover,” Patrick said, stepping closer to Richie. “Delara and I have been together for five years, but we’ve known each other for eight years. She remembers when I was only dating and fucking guys.”

Richie’s breath rushed out of him and he had to inhale sharply. “Look, if you’re looking for someone to prove something, like you can still fuck guys, or I’m your designated last fuck before you get married, I’d rather not be that guy.”

Delara shook her head. “We’re not.”

“She’s known I’m bi since we met,” Patrick clarified, easing Richie’s fears. “It’s why we’ve always been polyamorous. You’re not the first guy we’ve asked to be our lover. We’re not open about polyamory to our parents, but our close friends, like Loriann, Riker, and Sharon, know. If you’re willing to be our lover – and that means both of us – we have some ground rules.”

“Such as?”

“You show us proof of a completed STD test by a local clinic. You agree to always use condoms. You agree to be exclusive to us. You agree that we’ll communicate like adults – no passive-aggressive bullshit and no pretending everything is fine when it’s not. We’ll do the same. If you decide you want one of us more than the other, we’ll talk. It won’t be a deal-breaker, but we’d really love to be married to each other and have a third partner with whom we can build a long-term relationship.”

Richie could not believe the offer on the table. He had dreamed of being in a triad after having experienced a threesome one wild night in Paris years before. The experience had started him down the path of exploring alternative relationships. “And if I were to say no, I’m not interested in anything more than friendship?”

“We’d be disappointed,” Delara noted, “but we’ll still invite you to dinner. If you’ve only been in the city since April, that means you haven’t built friendships outside of the people you already know.” She offered him a gentle smile. “I can’t imagine living here without knowing fifty people I could call on to put together an impromptu party or to help us with whatever we might need.”

Richie took a deep breath. “I’d like to think about it,” he said, controlling his urge to just say fuck it and seduce them. He recognized such a move would cause him to never see them again. He did not want that. “Can I get back to you?”

Patrick and Delara smiled. “Of course,” Delara said.

“One last thing,” Patrick said, “before you get your gear on. Can we hug you?”

Richie grinned, recognizing it as a shameless excuse for closeness, if nothing further happened. “Sure.”

As if they had choreographed it, Delara hugged him from the back, Patrick from the front, lingering. Richie inhaled sharply, loving Patrick’s solidity and the softness of Delara.

Reluctantly, they stepped back. “Be safe getting home,” Patrick told him.

Nodding, Richie put on his coat and picked up his helmet and gloves, and then exited the house.


	3. Chapter 3

Getting an STD test done was not a problem; Richie had done so for other lovers. Three days after visiting a clinic that did such testing, he had his results, which, unsurprisingly, were clean. As an immortal, he was immune to disease. He stopped by a sex toys shop to stock up on his favorite brand of condoms, which were thinner than those available in a drugstore. Then he texted Delara and Patrick.

_I’d love to be your lover, _he wrote, _and I have the test results. I’m clean. When can I see you again? I work Saturdays until two and I’m off on Sundays._

Delara sent him a gif of two people dancing in joy.

Patrick texted, _We’re headed to the annual City Lights Festival on Saturday. Do you want to meet us at our place at six, unless you want to join us at the festival?_

_I’ll see you at your place at six, _he agreed. _I’m not much for going to the fair._

_My parents love it, _Delara said. _They think it’s unamerican if you don’t go to at least one fair or festival every year._

_I can’t imagine what it’s like to grow up being told what’s American by your parents when your parents are immigrants, _Richie wrote.

Delara typed, _It’s hilarious in hindsight and awkward as hell when you’re living it. We’ll see you on Saturday. Don’t worry about dinner; we’ll feed you, and we’ll talk about how to make this all work._

Richie shivered in anticipation.

* * *

#### Saturday, August 10

Dinner was much simpler on Saturday; Patrick cooked seared salmon with a lentil-and-tomato salad. It made Richie appreciate what the other man could do and made him realize Patrick and Delara were well-matched in the kitchen.

“Do you cook?” Patrick asked Richie as they ate.

He nodded. “I have a high metabolism; I tend to burn a lot of calories, so if I were to eat out all the time, I’d have to be pickier about what and where I eat. It’s just easier if I cook myself something I don’t mind eating again.”

“A lot of the recipes I learned are for a big family,” Delara noted. “They don’t scale well to two people. I leave the math for engineers.”

Patrick grinned and reached across the table to grasp Delara’s hand reassuringly, even as he asked, “Who taught you to cook?”

“Duncan’s girlfriend when he became my guardian was French. Tessa thought it was ridiculous I was seventeen and didn’t know how to boil water, so she taught me.”

“Not Duncan?” Delara asked, surprised.

Richie chuckled. “He taught me a few dishes, but I learned more how to chop vegetables and butcher meat from him than I did Tessa. Because of what they taught me, I worked for a while as a line cook in a restaurant in Paris; that was…an experience.”

Delara and Patrick chuckled. “Based on what I’ve heard and seen on TV, it sounds like being multilingual wasn’t the only thing you needed to be.”

Richie nodded. “Yeah. Made me glad one of the ways Duncan got me to sit still and stay at home was to challenge me to chop onions and herbs for freezing. I didn’t stay a prep cook for long because of my experience. What made you learn to cook?”

“My mom was terrible at it,” Patrick admitted. “She really should have done anything else, but she and my dad were raised in the same religious belief that a woman’s place was at home. I learned to cook so I would stop getting food poisoning.”

“That explains Riker’s comment about trusting your cooking,” Richie noted.

Delara chuckled. “Yeah, Patrick can get zealous about making sure we cook everything to the proper temperature and avoiding cross-contamination, but I’ve been grateful for it. He helped me figure out why I can’t eat certain dishes if they’re prepared the way my mom insists.”

Amused, Richie ate more of his fish. “Besides cooking, what do you do for fun?”

“Mostly watch movies and TV shows,” Delara said. “I do barre3 three times a week; if I don’t do it, I feel awful.”

Richie grinned.

“I imagine with you working at a dojo, you get in a workout fairly regularly,” Patrick noted.

“I have to,” Richie admitted. “I don’t teach the classes, but I often act as a spotter, so I have to know what we’re doing and be in shape to make sure the students don’t hurt themselves trying.”

“I refuse to be a gym rat,” Patrick said, “but my building has a gym in the basement, and my company gives us free membership to it, so I do a circuit of the equipment twice a week during lunch. Makes me feel like I’m not sitting on my ass all the time.”

“I can’t remember,” Richie began, looking at Delara, “if you told me what you do for a living.”

“I’m a translator for a company that helps other companies with localization. Say you need a website in Farsi; I write the copy that goes on the site, and I point out what would be inappropriate images to use. We also help other companies who are going to do business in companies where English isn’t the primary language – what not to wear, how to say please buy my product, how not to be rude, etc.”

Richie’s eyes widened. “I can see where that is still incredibly useful. You can google a lot, but it’s not perfect at how not to insult someone in thirty seconds by offering them the wrong greeting or handshake.”

Delara nodded. “Especially if you don’t know you should be asking that kind of question. I’ve had projects where the executive honestly thought they would be taken seriously because the Internet said Americans do x amount of business there.”

“Yeah, she has the cool job,” Patrick said, pride and good-natured teasing in his voice. “Sometimes she even gets to travel and be the interpreter.”

“Not so much these days; they’ve embraced videoconferencing to cut down on travel and visa costs,” Delara said ruefully. “Still, I keep hoping my fluency in French means I’ll get sent to Paris someday. How long did you live there, Richie?”

“Last ten years,” Richie said, shrugging. “Before that, it was off and on for about a decade, but I also did some traveling around the world, trying to figure out where I wanted to be.”

“Any place you want to go back to?” Patrick wondered.

Richie considered the question. “I’m a city boy. I like being out in the woods – Duncan taught me how to camp – but give me a vibrant city, like Sydney or Paris or New York – and I’ll happily spend months there.”

Patrick high-fived him. “You and me both.”

Delara shook her head. “I like cities, but I need time out in the woods or on a beach. Give me a little nature to go with my urban sprawl.”

“Duncan and his cousin, Connor, have family land in Scotland,” Richie said, choosing his words carefully. “The first time they took me there, I thought for sure I’d dropped off the world into another planet.”

“Is it anything like what you see on _Outlander_?” Delara wondered.

Richie chuckled. “In terms of landscape – yes. Duncan argues with me over the show’s historical accuracy, but then turns around and teases his cousin about it.”

“You get along with his cousin?” Patrick wondered.

“As much as anyone does,” Richie confirmed. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Connor’s one of those people where if he likes you, you get whole sentences instead of one-word answers.”

Patrick and Delara looked confused. “I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone like that,” Delara said, frowning.

“Connor’s unique,” Richie agreed. “He’s an incredibly private person who is picky about whom he calls friend because he’s had bad experiences. Duncan is the more gregarious of the two.”

“Ah,” Patrick said. “I’m the black sheep in my family. My older brother refuses to talk to me because I left home.” Patrick rolled his eyes. “Such a scandal to leave that damned small town in Kansas.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Delara reminded him.

“Yeah, well, Michael can go fuck himself. He’s bought into that fire and brimstone and can’t unbend long enough to see I’m happy and that I’ll never choose the sexuality he thinks is going to save my soul.” Patrick turned to Richie. “Did you want any more food?”

Richie shook his head. “No, thanks; that was delicious. Do you want a hand with the cleanup?”

“No rush; everything is going into the dishwasher. Delara hates to wash dishes, so I always make sure whatever I cook with can go into the dishwasher.” He looked at Richie. “But given how I eager I am about wanting to see your test results so we can talk about where we go from here, I won’t say no to you helping clear the table.”

Richie smiled and rose to do that as Delara did the same. Once that task was complete and they had moved to the living room, Richie pulled out the printed test results from the pocket of his jacket and traded his paper for Delara’s and Patrick’s. He was not surprised Delara and Patrick had tested positive for HPV; the vaccine had existed only ten years, and it was one of the most common STDs.

They looked braced for his reaction, though part of him debated telling them the truth. “Not surprising,” he reassured them. “That’s why I brought the condoms I like – they’re thin but still highly rated for protection.”

Delara sagged in relief. “We had someone reject us because we’re HPV positive. I tried to tell them it’s different from HIV, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“You’re probably better off,” Richie replied, sympathetic.

“Given what we know now?” Patrick said. “Yeah, we are.” He grinned. “So – here’s the hard part. We’ve done this enough to know we have to talk before we get naked, and we get blunt and frank because that’s the only way we know how to talk about this stuff. What are the things you absolutely won’t do in bed?”

“No BDSM, no watersports, and no ‘let’s wake me up by sucking my cock’ games,” Richie said flatly. “I have very quick reflexes and I don’t always react well when I first wake up.”

Neither Patrick nor Delara looked surprised by that.

“I’m not interested in BDSM or watersports,” Patrick clarified, “but I enjoy getting woken up by having my cock sucked, but that’s okay if you don’t want to do it. We’ll do our best to remember, but please don’t kill us if we forget.”

“I also don’t want to do BSDM or watersports,” Delara said, “and I enjoy waking up to sex, but that just means that’s something we keep for ourselves instead of sharing with you. Any objection if you watched one of us doing it to the other?”

“No.” Richie shook his head. “If you woke up and started saying no, stop it, and the other person didn’t stop, then I’d object.”

“Fair enough,” Patrick said briskly. “Which leads to my next question: do you have any objection to us watching you with the other, or if we wanted to have sex with you simultaneously?”

“Isn’t that what being in a threesome is about?” Richie asked, surprised.

“We had a lover who only wanted to be with us if the other person wasn’t present. I had to invent places to be if he wanted to be with Patrick,” Delara noted dryly.

Richie frowned. “That seems to defeat the fun of having two lovers.”

Delara and Patrick chuckled. “We thought so, too,” Delara said.

Patrick asked, “Do you enjoy getting anally penetrated or do you prefer to be the penetrator? I like both, a lot.”

“I don’t prefer one over the other,” Richie said, “but I mind more if it becomes a situation where I’m always doing one versus the other.”

“Have you ever been pegged?” Delara asked.

“Delara likes to fuck me with her strap-on,” Patrick volunteered.

Richie blinked, surprised by that disclosure. He had assumed Delara to be more conventional in her sexual preferences, but that made him wonder what else she would do. “Do you get off on that?” he asked Delara, who blushed and nodded.

“I did it at first because I didn’t want him to miss getting fucked,” she admitted, lifting her chin in an unconscious defensive move. “Then I realized I really enjoyed seeing what it did to him, so it’s a regular thing for us, especially when we don’t have a lover to share. For the record – I use a condom on the toy and clean the toy and my harness after each use. I also use a glove when I lubricate someone for penetration.”

Richie was impressed and more than a little turned on by the frank discussion. He took a deep breath. “I haven’t ever been pegged by a woman but I’m willing to try it once and see if I like it. I like having my balls stroked and my ass played with. I also have a big cock. I won’t be upset if you can’t deep-throat it; I don’t enjoy watching my lovers gag.”

“Understood,” Patrick said, but his face reflected his anticipation. “Mine is curved a bit more than some. I’m of the same mind when it comes to deep-throating.”

Even as that reassured Richie, Richie hoped Patrick would not be like one of his past lovers, who had freaked out over Richie’s length and girth. Aloud, however, Richie asked, “Are there any positions you don’t want to be in?”

“I get supersensitive when someone eats me out, so I’m less inclined to want it. If I’m interested in it, I’ll let you know. I don’t have vaginal sex when I’m on my period; it’s not a turn-on for me. Also, wall sex is overrated,” Delara volunteered, which made Richie grin. “Also, if one of us has a muscle cramp for whatever reason, please don’t push for us to continue. It’s not sexy.”

“Agreed,” Richie said, relieved by what he had heard so far. “Anything else?”

“I’m not super flexible,” Patrick admitted. “If you expect some position out of the _Gay Kama Sutra _that’s not a common position, I’m probably going to decline to try.”

Richie grinned. “Yeah, some of that is beyond me, too. I’m up for experimentation but the moment one of us says stop or no, we stop.”

“Agreed. Ass to mouth is also gross,” Patrick added. “I don’t care how clean you’ve made yourself.”

Richie shuddered. “Agreed. Anything else we didn’t cover on the sexual preference list, let’s agree to talk about it? I have the vague sense we might have missed something.”

Delara and Patrick chuckled. “Probably, but I think we covered most of it,” Patrick said. “Delara, anything you’d like to add?”

“Logistics, as in when we’d like to see you, Richie. We both work Monday through Friday with a standard work schedule,” Delara said. “We’d like to see you once a week. We talked it over, and we understand that means you probably won’t make it to the Friday night dinners as often as someone else might or not at all.”

“I can be here on Saturdays, but the dojo is open until 1 pm. Duncan and I do cleanup and closeout after the last person leaves, which means the earliest I can be with you is 3:30 pm,” Richie said. “As for Fridays – I can ask for the time off, but Duncan wouldn’t appreciate me taking off every week.”

Patrick and Delara nodded. “It’s okay. If you can make it on a Friday, it’ll be awesome. Otherwise, don’t worry about it.” Patrick flashed a grin. “Loriann will get over it.”

Richie smothered a laugh. “I get the impression Loriann is your blanket excuse for a lot of things.”

“She is,” Delara agreed. “She’s like a favorite aunt, the kind who taught you how to steal stop signs and not get caught.”

Richie giggled.

“She’s the one who suggested polyamory to me,” Patrick added. “She was worried I’d feel like I was missing something if I was with Delara. The reason we haven’t gotten married yet is because we were working out what polyamory meant to us. We’ve spent the last two years figuring out what we don’t want, which is someone who is more interested in swinging and casual sex than friends and lovers. We don’t think polyamory should be used as a ‘get out of jail free pass’ to cheat. If you can’t be with us exclusively, then tell us.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Richie vowed. “Being with you two is one more person than I ever thought I could have. I never cheated on anyone I was with before and I don’t intend to start now.”

Delara chuckled. “Good to know. Do you have any family here in the city?”

“Duncan is the closest person I have to it,” Richie admitted. “He’s like a father figure to me; I’ve known him since I was seventeen. He’s very open-minded about relationships.”

“So he wouldn’t have a fit over you with two people?” Delara interpreted.

“He’s sometimes joked I need two people,” Richie said ruefully. “But if he objects, he knows I’ll hear him out and do what I want anyway unless it means someone will be seriously hurt. Any other questions?”

“Not that I can think of,” Delara said, glancing at Patrick, who shook his head. “Then, gentlemen, let’s go upstairs, get naked, and have some fun getting intimately acquainted.”

* * *

Delara and Patrick had decorated the master bedroom in a blue-and-green theme, with a king-size bed. The bed’s distressed pine headboard was matched by the two nightstands that flanked it and by the six-drawer dresser with mirror. They had positioned the oversize mirror to reflect any activity on the bed. A leather recliner with ottoman sat next to the corner fireplace, beside the large picture window, which had gauzy curtains to let in the light but not let anyone outside see in.

Richie had paused on his way upstairs to grab the condoms he had bought out of a pocket of his motorcycle jacket. He set the condoms on the nightstand as Patrick pulled back the bedcovers. Delara pulled a box of condoms and a bottle of lubricant out and set it on the nightstand next to Richie's stack of condoms. Richie then undressed as his lovers-to-be did the same; Patrick put on a condom, as did Richie.

Patrick then drew him to the edge of the bed, kissing him as Delara stroked them both. Richie sighed into the kiss, loving the unhurried pace Patrick was setting even as it ignited his desires. Delara’s hand on his cock added to the fire.

“Ooh, you are big and long,” Delara noted. “And it feels like you’re not wearing much of a condom at all. Love, we’ve got to get these.”

Richie smothered a laugh and turned his head to address her. “Sex & Love on Capital Street,” he told her, referring to the sex supplies shop where he had bought the condoms. Recognition of the shop flashed across her eyes and she started to speak. Recognizing the conversation would derail the moment, Richie kissed her.

“God, that’s hot,” Patrick murmured, and stroked Richie’s cock. “But yeah, I like what you’ve got, Richie.”

Pleased by that declaration and wanting to kiss Patrick again, Richie broke off kissing Delara. Delara whimpered in protest but resumed her stroking.

“I want to you to suck me and get me hard,” Patrick declared a few minutes later, breaking Richie’s kissing. “Then I want to sink into you while you’re fucking Delara and fuck you into her. Do you have any objection to Delara fingering you and getting you ready while you’re sucking me? She’ll wear a glove.”

“No, I’d like that,” Richie agreed, and knelt to his assigned task. Patrick’s cock was wider and more curved than Richie had expected, but Richie had no problem working him into his mouth and taking most of the length. Patrick shivered with pleasure and put his hands on Richie’s shoulders, steadying him even as Patrick thrust into his mouth. Richie felt Delara’s gloved fingers on his asshole, stretching and lubricating him.

“You feel good on my fingers,” Delara told Richie before adding a fourth. He breathed in sharply, aware that Patrick was big like him and a fourth finger would help. “Easy, babe, you’ll like I did this. Rock back on my fingers. That’s it. You’ll love Patrick’s cock in your ass. God, the two of you are making me so wet. I can’t wait to be under you.”

Delara’s words inflamed Richie, making it harder for him pay attention to the task ahead of him. It was not long before Patrick was hard, and Richie reluctantly pulled off. He wanted that thick cock in his ass, and he wanted Delara’s cunt around his cock.

Delara laid down on the bed. Despite her warning, Richie was surprised to find she was soaking wet when he slid into her. Reading his surprise, Delara told him, “I get off on watching Patrick’s cock get sucked and I loved the way you were riding my fingers.”

Richie breathed in harshly, his head heavy with desire. It had been years since had been with two lovers. He had nearly forgotten the rush of pure lust being with two people ignited in him. He wanted this moment to last, but he ached to feel Patrick’s cock in him. “Patrick, please,” he begged.

Delara clenched her internal muscles around Richie’s cock, and he inhaled sharply. Pleased by his response, she rocked up; he met her thrust.

He felt more than saw Patrick climb over him, then Patrick said, “Hold steady and breathe in for me.”

Patrick’s cock slid into his asshole in slow increments until he was fully seated. Then Patrick carried out his promise of fucking Richie into his girlfriend. Richie had barely figured out a rhythm before Patrick took over, giving him no chance to do anything but enjoy the weight and curve of Patrick’s cock in his ass, the heat of Delara’s cunt around his cock. Braced above Delara, Richie did his best to give her pleasure, kissing her until they both couldn’t keep kissing, thrusting into her and up into Patrick. Pleasure exploded in Richie’s brain as his orgasm overtook him; whiting out any sense of anything but ecstasy as he came hard and thrust into Delara. Delara cried out wordlessly, her arms rising to clutch at Richie and Patrick, and triggered Patrick’s orgasm.

It was a moment before anyone moved. Patrick pulled out, mindful of the condom he wore, telling Richie, “There’s a trash can on this side of the bed.”

Once the condoms were dealt with, Patrick and Delara took turns kissing Richie. “Thank you,” Patrick said.

Richie grinned and kissed him. “Give me a few minutes and I can do it again.”

“That fast?” Patrick asked, astonished.

“Yeah,” Richie said. “Interested in round two?”

“Hell yeah,” Patrick said, and reached for a condom Richie had brought, rolling it onto Richie’s cock. “Mind if I use one of these on myself to try it out?”

“No, go ahead.”

Delara snuggled up against Richie and he turned his head to face her. “Something on your mind?”

“I love the way you felt inside me,” she told him. “You can do that to me anytime.”

He kissed her tenderly. “My pleasure.”

Richie shivered as Patrick stroked his cock. Breaking his kiss with Delara, Richie glanced down in time to catch Patrick’s expression. “Problem?”

“No. Just – debating what I want more: your cock in my ass or in my mouth.” Patrick squeezed Richie’s cock firmly, making him gasp. “Or if I just want to see how breathless I can make you, stroking you like this until you come again.”

“How about we both drive him a little crazy?” Delara suggested, shifting position until she could reach Richie’s balls and asshole. She stroked both, reminding Richie how she had prepared him for Patrick’s cock, and the sensation combined with the memory to increase his hardness.

“Have I told you lately I love your plans?” Patrick asked Delara as he continued to stroke Richie’s cock.

“Mm hmm, earlier,” Delara agreed. “When I put that butt plug in your ass, so you’d be nice and stretched for Richie.”

The thought Patrick had a butt plug in his ass this entire time made Richie hard. “You – you got ready for me?”

“Yes,” Patrick told him. “I thought, based on your height, you’d be big like me, which usually means advance prep.”

Richie shuddered in pleasure at the thought. “Patrick, please. I’m ready.”

Nodding, Patrick moved and pulled out the butt plug, setting it on the nightstand. Richie started to move, but Patrick shook his head. “Want to ride you.”

Carefully, Patrick eased Richie’s cock into his asshole, bouncing up and down until he was fully seated. Both men gasped in pleasure. Patrick kept the rhythm going; Richie carefully thrust up, until he could see Patrick losing control. Richie then rolled them, so they lay sideways, and continued his thrusting, reaching down to stroke Patrick’s cock. Patrick whimpered in pleasure and moaned Richie’s name.

“Are you getting close?” Delara asked Richie.

Not trusting his voice, he nodded. Delara moved, and it took Richie a second to realize she had moved so she could lick his balls. The combination of sensation from both of his lovers triggered his orgasm, and he lost his breath as he came. Patrick orgasmed, gasping Richie’s name again.

The rest of the evening passed in a haze of watching TV and sex. Richie left reluctantly at just past midnight, unwilling to overstay his welcome. Over the next six weeks, Richie spent his Saturday evenings with Delara and Patrick, learning just how to pleasure them and teaching them what he loved about sex. Delara proved her dirty talk during sex was no fluke, and it made Richie appreciate her all the more for it. Patrick loved fucking, and he especially loved Richie’s cock any way he could get it. Together, they made Richie crave more even as they sated his desire to have both a female and a male lover.

Outside of bed, Richie learned they loved to go to the movies, seeing sci-fi and action/adventure films, and they split evenly their choice in TV shows between cooking shows and sci-fi. When he discovered they had never been to the city’s art museum, he took them there. He watched and fell in love with Patrick as he tried to figure out how Tessa had welded the massive abstract spiral sculpture on display in the museum. The sculpture looked like a looped, multiple-S line that turned in on itself multiple times, leaving the viewer to wonder where the line started and where it began. When Richie admitted he had helped with welding the base, Patrick looked at him, stunned.

“She was a friend of yours?”

“She taught me how to use a welding torch, how to speak French, and how to cook,” Richie told Patrick and Delara. “She was Mac’s girlfriend when I became his ward.” He took a deep breath. “I miss her a lot.”

“What happened?” Delara asked.

“A mugger murdered her,” Richie said, drawing a deep breath as the old grief passed through him.

“I’m sorry.” Patrick hugged him, and he took refuge in the unconditional comfort. “Since you’ve been here a lot – anything else here we should see?”

“The rest of the local art showcase and the modern masters,” Richie said, taking the cue.

The following weekend, Richie took them to a midnight burlesque show at an Italian restaurant he loved, since they had never been to one of those either. When they got home, the sex they had that night was passionate and wild, spurred on by the flirtation and teasing they had seen, as Richie had suspected and hoped it would be.

“Maybe I should learn burlesque,” Delara teased them in the wake of their passion.

“No, love,” Patrick objected at once. “Don’t want anyone else but me and Richie to see your lovely breasts and ass.”

“No? What about you, Richie?”

“If it was just for us, sure, but you’re your own person; you do what you want,” he allowed.

“I know,” Delara said, and kissed him. “But I like to please my boyfriends. If you wanted to buy me some lingerie like those ladies at the show, I wouldn’t mind. I’ve had nothing that pretty.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Richie promised. “But if I were to do it, I’d want to take you along, so it fits.”

“Do they even make lingerie for women with big boobs? All I’ve ever seen is stuff for flat and small boobs.”

“I can find out,” Richie promised. “There’s a shop here in the city that makes custom lingerie; Tessa took me there.”

“Whatever for? It’s not like she would model them for you,” Delara said, shocked.

“So I wouldn’t be embarrassed walking into a shop like that,” Richie corrected. “And know to be armed with measurements instead of sketch dimensions.” He underscored his words with his hands. “Or make the mistake of buying something that would get me into trouble with Duncan. I didn’t have anyone to tell me what was inappropriate to buy for a friend’s girlfriend before I was his ward.”

“That’s useful information,” Patrick agreed. “Maybe we can go together.”

Richie met Patrick’s eyes and saw a promise there. “That would be nice.”

When Delara mentioned she loved jazz, Richie bought them tickets to a concert at a local winery where they had a picnic dinner under the stars while a jazz trio played.

“How in the world did you get tickets for this?” Delara exclaimed as he handed them to the ticket taker. “I thought it was sold out!”

“I got lucky?” Richie hazarded. He had no idea who the artist was, only that Delara had mentioned them as an act she liked. “Sometimes the venue will release any tickets they haven’t sold a few days before the concert.”

Delara kissed him. “When you said pack a picnic basket and a blanket to go to the winery, I didn’t think it would be for this! Thank you! Patrick, why didn’t you do this?”

“I thought this counted as too much nature?” Patrick said in his defense as they found a spot on the grass before the stage.

Delara rolled her eyes. “We aren’t spending the night here.”

Richie had the sense they had never taken the time to explore the city’s options for art and music, and therefore had assumed those places were only for the rich. He wanted to give them a taste of the cultural experiences he enjoyed most – places that were accessible to the public, for not a lot of money, and where art and music were on display. Delara and Patrick loved what he was showing them and the experiences they were sharing.

After two months, Richie recognized what he wanted. He wanted them; he wanted to see them in his bed, wanted to wake up to them every morning. He held back on inviting them to his place, though, instinctively needing a refuge for when he had to walk away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edits have been made to previous chapters; I forgot Richie's new motorcycle has both saddlebags and a trunk, heh. :-)

#### Thursday, September 12

At what had become their weekly dinner-after-work at Mama’s, the Mexican restaurant across the street from the dojo, Duncan asked Richie, “Did you want to do anything for your birthday next week?”

“Can I have the weekend off?” Richie asked promptly.

“Sure. What did you want to do?”

Richie used the excuse of needing to take a drink to cover his hesitation.

Duncan leaned back in his chair, amused. “I remember when you couldn’t stop talking about whoever you were dating, so it must be someone important. Want me to guess?”

“No,” Richie said hastily. “They’re the people I met through Theo. They have a weekly Friday night dinner with friends; I’d like to surprise them by showing up.”

“You don’t want to go to La Costa?” Duncan asked, naming the city’s landmark fine-dining restaurant. It had become a tradition for Duncan to treat Richie to a birthday dinner there or a comparable restaurant whenever they were both in the same city.

“Delara usually makes a mix of Persian and American food, and she’s a fantastic cook, as is her fiancé,” Richie said. “And I’d rather brunch on Sunday with you. It’s been a while since we’ve done brunch at the Eden Café; I want to see if their lobster and caviar Benedict is as good as I remember.” Richie named one of the city’s most popular and luxurious breakfast cafés.

Duncan studied him. “Are you involved with one or both of them?”

“Both; they want someone who wants them both and no one else.” Richie held his breath, certain Duncan would be accepting given his long life and history with Amanda, but the older immortal had surprised him in the past.

“Are they committed to each other?”

“They’re engaged. Their wedding is December 7, and no, this isn’t a case where they’re using me to cheat on the other. They asked me to be their lover together and set their rules and expectations in the same conversation.” Richie leaned forward, wanting Duncan to understand. “Mac, I’ve been seeing them every week since the beginning of August. I’ve never had a relationship like this. I want to see where this goes.”

Assured by that, Duncan nodded his understanding and asked, “What do they do?”

“Delara works as a translator for a company that helps other companies with translating their products and services, since she’s fluent in Arabic, Farsi, French, and English. Patrick is a mechanical engineer for a firm that specializes in healthcare and commercial facilities.”

Duncan looked relieved. “Do either of them have government or military clearances?”

“I hadn’t thought to ask. Why?” Richie frowned.

“Some of the translators I’ve known have government clearances to work on projects. I don’t know how it is now, but it often meant they were subject to morals clauses in their employment. Meaning, anything considered ‘deviant’ behavior could mean loss of employment or worse. I know we’ve come a long way towards acceptance, but we’re also seeing a backlash happening. I wouldn’t be surprised if something that hadn’t been enforced in the last decade starts being enforced.”

Richie grimaced at that assessment. “God, I hope that doesn’t happen to either of them. The reason they aren’t married yet is because they wanted to explore what polyamory meant to them. I’m confident they looked at whether being open about it would be risky,” Richie told Duncan. “They told me they’ve been polyamorous for the last two years and that Patrick dated men only before he met Delara.”

Concerned, Duncan leaned forward, his expression troubled. “How confident are you that you aren’t Patrick’s last fling before settling down?”

“He said I wasn’t,” Richie said, lifting a hand to underscore his words. “And I know you’ve sometimes questioned my ability to judge when someone’s telling me a line, but I’ve learned not to let my lust override caution. I used to think just because someone presented themselves as upstanding citizens, they weren’t predisposed to lie.”

“Glad you finally learned that lesson,” Duncan noted. “I was beginning to wonder what it would take.”

Richie laughed ruefully. “Yeah, well, I was naïve for way longer than I should have been, given the way I grew up.”

“You just want to believe in the best of people in general,” Duncan countered. “It’s one of the things I’ve appreciated about you over the years. No matter what happens, you’re willing to believe that.”

“Yeah, well, for a while there, I was pretty convinced otherwise about you. It made me doubt everything.” He met Duncan’s eyes and for a moment, both remembered the Dark Quickening.

“I’m sorry, Richie. I can’t change what happened, but I’m glad you and I found a way through that.”

“Me too.” He took a sip of his soda. “But back to what we were discussing before that sidebar down memory lane – I trust what Patrick and Delara told me. Both he and Delara were emphatic about wanting someone who would be their third partner for a long time.” Richie eyed the older immortal a moment. “Now I have to break down and ask. Were you with Cory and Amanda at the same time?”

Duncan flushed. “I didn’t think through it then, but they also did their best to arrange things so I wasn’t thinking.” He paused. “I couldn’t do it again. I’d rather devote my attention to one person. You have always been more than one person can handle. Your intensity and energy aren’t for everyone.”

Richie chuckled. “Took me a decade to figure that out. But… I want to be with them, Mac. I’m falling in love with them and look forward to seeing them every week.”

“Then I’ll wish you luck,” Duncan said sincerely. “Tell me more about them.”

“Delara was born and raised here; her parents fled Christian persecution in Iran and raised her to be more American than Persian. Patrick came here for college from a small town in Idaho; he has an aunt who is a real estate agent here. His parents are religious conservatives; I got the impression he doesn’t tell them everything about his life.” Richie pulled out his phone and showed Duncan the photo he had taken of Delara and Patrick the previous Saturday when they had gone out to the winery together.

Duncan’s eyes widened in appreciation and he handed back the phone. “They look like a lovely couple. When you’re ready, I’d love to meet them.” He paused. “Have you told them about the Game?”

Richie shook his head. “Not yet.”

Duncan looked surprised. “You’ve always advocated for more disclosure, not less.”

Richie sighed. “I’ve also learned, as you tried to warn me, it doesn’t mean the person you’re with can handle that kind of information. I told Jeff, my last long-term lover, but he eventually decided he wanted someone who wasn’t likely to stumble home after a fight.” Richie let out another breath, shaking his head at the memory. “He told me I ruined the fantasy he had of a modern-day knight and wanted someone who didn’t sleep with a knife under his pillow.”

“I’m sorry. I know you two looked happy when I saw you at Christmas.”

“Like I told you in February when you called, wanting to know when I’d be able to leave Paris, Jeff waited until after New Year’s to break up with me. He didn’t want to ruin the holiday, but meeting you firmed his belief that he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with me.”

“I hope it works out this time for you.”

With a nod, Richie said, “Me too. If it makes any difference, I want to tell Delara and Patrick before some headhunter targets them.”

“You know that’s a small window between now and the next headhunter,” Duncan reminded him. “Fall always makes the headhunters show up; they’re less noticeable then with everyone wearing coats.”

Richie grimaced. “Then I’ll tell Joe we’ll meet him for brunch on Sunday and he can watch us spar after.”

“I’ll book a reservation for three at the Eden Room in the Four Seasons for 10 AM,” Duncan said. “And Richie – a relationship, no matter how many people, requires communication. One reason Cory, Amanda, and I wouldn’t work is because they’re both inclined to not to say things I consider to be important – such as whether the police are after them – and they’ve pulled the ‘we’re both older than you’ card on me.”

“Who do you think suggested I needed two people as romantic partners?” Richie grinned. “I would’ve never thought about it otherwise.”

Duncan smiled ruefully. “Sometimes I forget you’ve spent more time learning about the world without me, and I keep wanting to do or say things as if you’re still nineteen.”

Richie grinned, certain even if he reached two hundred, Duncan would still want to parent him. “It’s my youthful good looks,” Richie assured him. “Everyone thinks I’m nineteen.”

“No – I should know better, especially since I’ve been guilty of doing it to Connor, too.”

Richie laughed. “I bet that goes over like a lead balloon.”

“You know it.”

* * *

“I keep thinking I see Richie on his motorcycle when I’m riding the bus home,” Delara told Patrick as they stood in the kitchen, cleaning up after their dinner together. “I know it’s not him, but I see a motorcycle and my hopes go up.”

Patrick chuckled. “Me too.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Part of me wants to go over to his work and check it out, see if I can meet the mysterious Duncan MacLeod who sounds almost too good to be true.”

Delara shook her head. “You’re just surprised you can’t find any social media profile for either of them that’s not tied to the dojo. Think about it, Patrick. If you had Tracy’s kids in your class, would you want Tracy to stalk your personal profile?”

Patrick groaned. “Hell no. When you put it that way, it’s a good thing the only thing they have is the dojo. Nobody really needs to know what you had for lunch or that you ate at some fancy restaurant.”

“I bet Richie’s eaten at La Costa,” Delara said, passing him the pasta pot she had just washed.

Patrick laughed and wiped the pot dry before putting it away. “I’m sure he has. I like that he’s not taking us places that fancy all the time. I just – kinda feel bad that we’re turning him into a TV junkie like we are and that we don’t go out as much as he does.”

Delara turned and kissed Patrick. “Has he told you he minds?”

“No, but you can tell he loves to check out museums and history and take us places we might not think to go.”

“Is that so bad? You know I’ve lived here all my life and outside of school field trips, I haven’t been to many places that a tourist would go to. Maybe Richie has the right idea.”

“Do you want me to take you to those places?” Patrick asked seriously. “I know I made a big deal out of you going to places without me and we’ve done less and less of going out, period, the longer we’re together.”

Delara considered it as she rinsed plates and silverware before passing them to Patrick to stack in the dishwasher. “Only if they’re places you want to go to anyway,” she said finally. “I like that it’s something Richie’s doing with us that we don’t do together. I can’t see him at some big geeky convention like Comicon.”

“Me neither. But he might do it – he seems game for new experiences.” Patrick put soap in the dishwasher and turned it on while Delara washed the colander and put in the dish drainer to dry. “We can ask. He might have a good idea for a costume.”

“Do you think his former guardian got him a kilt?” Delara wondered.

Patrick barked a laugh and grabbed his phone. _Delara wants to know if Duncan got you a kilt._

_No, but he keeps asking if I want one, _Richie texted_. I keep telling him if he ever gets me one, then I need adoption papers to prove I’m a MacLeod with the right to wear that tartan. Short version is that his family’s pattern is distinctive and belongs to a branch that was banished._

_Banished for what? _Patrick asked.

_For witchcraft, _Richie wrote. _They were falsely accused of it, but the charge stuck. The plaid is a gorgeous pattern, but knowing what it means to him and Connor, I don’t feel right in wearing it since I’m not a MacLeod._

_Well, in that case, I can see why you’d hesitate, _Patrick texted. He relayed to Delara what Richie had told him.

“Still: men in kilts,” Delara sighed dreamily. “You two are going to have to figure out a way to do that for me at some point.”

Patrick snorted. “No way. Ask Richie, but you won’t get me in one of those. I’d rather be naked or wearing pants.”

Delara grinned. “I’ll figure out how to convince you eventually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to finish this before I go to FanWorks. :-)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to make it clear: I am not against vegans or lesbians. I just want to portray a single instance of the two converging in the most militant way, because I don't buy the argument that I can't write that. Please don't hate me.

#### Friday, September 20

“Richie!” Surprised, Patrick opened the door to his house and kissed him before letting him inside. “I thought you had to work tonight?”

“Asked Duncan for the weekend off,” Richie said. “Thought you might enjoy seeing me on a Friday night for a change.”

“Of course! We’re still getting ready; Delara had to work late, so she’s upstairs changing clothes. Riker and Sharon will be here, and we’ll have another couple joining us whom you haven’t met yet.”

Richie set down his backpack, which held a change of clothes, on the floor to the left of the door and then placed his motorcycle boots and jacket beside it. “Oh, who?”

“Barbara Flores and her wife, Vita; we met them two weekends ago at a Pride month get-together over at Rainbow Coffee. You were still at work or we would have asked you to come with us.”

Richie nodded, recognizing the name of one of the city’s famed independent coffeehouses, which had been a staple of the LGBTQ+ community for decades. “Should be interesting. Is there anything I can do to help with dinner?”

“Help me figure out what to make into vegan meatballs? I just got a text from Barbara saying they would prefer if we didn’t serve meat, but I need something to fill out spaghetti.” Patrick grimaced. “I drew the line at redoing the whole menu just for two people, but I don’t want to be serving plain spaghetti and salad either.”

“Got a can of black beans and some breadcrumbs? I have a recipe for meatless meatballs,” Richie offered.

Patrick kissed him. “Delara said we should text you, given you used to work in restaurants and clubs and would probably know something. I was just about to google a recipe when you rang the doorbell.”

It didn’t take long for Richie to make the vegan meatballs, which was a recipe he had learned from a cook at Sanctuary. They were a hit across the board, but Richie could tell that Barbara and Vita did not mesh well with the others in the group.

Once all the guests had left and they cleaned the dishes, Richie turned to Delara and Patrick. “I’m guessing Barbara and Vita aren’t going to be invited back?”

Delara sighed, her expression reflecting her disappointment and annoyance. “Not when they’re patting themselves on the back for being vegans and ‘converting’ us. I thought they would choke when Loriann said grace. I really thought they were nice people, but I won’t have people in our house who think they have the right to impose their values on others.” She kissed Richie. “Thank you for coming up with those meatless meatballs.”

“We used to serve them at Sanctuary,” Richie noted. “The chef taught me to make them.” He smiled and changed the subject. “In happier things: I’m here, and I was hoping to spend the rest of the night with you.”

“We’d love that.” Delara kissed him, drawing it out and clarifying she wanted him sexually.

“Hey, no fair,” Patrick protested, and when Delara stepped back, took his turn.

Soon, they found their way into the master bedroom.

“Who wants the middle?” Patrick asked as they undressed.

It did not escape Richie’s notice that Delara kept her underwear on. Once they were undressed, Patrick and Richie donned condoms.

“Me,” Richie said. “Delara, I want to be inside you while Patrick takes me.”

“Much as I hate to be a killjoy,” Delara said regretfully, “I’m on my period, so vaginal sex is out for me, and anal sex this time of the month is not fun, either.” She pressed her hands against her stomach.

After taking her hands in his so she would stop clenching them, Richie kissed her slowly. “You’re still beautiful, Delara, and I’ll take your hands on me any way I can get them.”

She looked relieved by his words. “Thanks, Richie. I was worried you’d be upset.”

“For something your body does every month until you hit menopause?” Richie drew back, startled. “I can’t imagine Patrick gets upset with you for that, so whoever that idiot was, they’re not in this bedroom; we are.”

Delara chuckled softly, acknowledging his words.

Patrick leaned over and kissed him. “What if I said I want to suck you off while Delara got you ready for me to take you? Would you object?”

“No,” Richie said, the image heating his blood. “Please, Patrick, Delara. I want you.” He laid on the bed on his side and waited for Patrick.

Patrick did not hesitate, arranging himself so he could suck Richie’s cock while Richie returned the favor. Delara heightened Richie’s arousal by stroking his body, paying attention to his nipples, and gripping his ass.

Meanwhile, Patrick worked Richie’s cock into his mouth. By now, Richie knew Patrick couldn’t take all of his length for an extended period, but he enjoyed his enthusiasm. On his side, Richie found the angle of Patrick’s cock to more challenging to mouth and suck on, so he settled for stroking what he could not fit into his mouth and paying more attention to the head. He loved being in a sixty-nine; it felt like a feedback loop of pleasure.

Soon, the feel of Delara’s fingers in Richie’s ass distracted him, stretching and lubricating him, and he stopped sucking Patrick’s cock to whimper a request for more.

“That’s it, babe. I know you love it when my fingers are in your ass. Going to be Patrick’s cock in there soon and he’ll fuck you hard. You want that?”

“Yes, please,” Richie moaned. Delara’s explicit language added spice to the heat he was feeling. He had always preferred lovers who knew what they wanted, and her frankness escalated his desire. “Want your mouth on me when he does, Delara.”

“Oh, yeah, babe, going to taste you,” Delara promised.

“God, Richie, love sucking your cock while your mouth is on me,” Patrick declared a few moments later, “but I want to be in your ass more. Flip around?”

Though this was a position they had been in before, it had yet to get old. Richie loved the feel of Patrick’s solidity against his body as they rocked together and the way Delara applied herself to stroking and sucking his cock, keeping one hand on his cock between her mouth and the base of his cock to prevent accident choking. All too soon, they tumbled over pleasure’s cliff together. When he was with them, the world faded away.

As Riche cuddled them close in the wake of their spent passion, Delara spoke up. “Not that I’m complaining, but we were expecting you tomorrow. What’s the occasion?”

Richie smiled. “Happy birthday to me. Well, happy birthday eve; tomorrow’s actually my birthday.”

Patrick rose on one elbow. “You should have told us sooner; we would’ve made you a cake.”

“I much prefer this kind of celebration. I like cake, but I like being with you two more. Besides, Duncan’s taking me out to brunch on Sunday at the Eden Café at the Four Seasons Hotel. He’ll tell them it’s for my birthday, and they’ll present me with this ridiculous, over-the-top cake the size of a tart.”

Patrick blinked. “I’ve heard of it. It’s supposedly amazing and expensive, like you can get caviar on your scrambled eggs expensive.”

Richie nodded. “Yes; he’s taken me to brunch there before. We were seated by another party who got their birthday cake, which is why I know about it. Thing was about six inches tall.”

Patrick looked amazed. “You act like going someplace that fancy and expensive is no big deal.”

“Because it isn’t,” Richie insisted before conceding, “At least, not anymore. Duncan is rich. He insisted I learn how to enjoy fine dining and high society so I wouldn’t embarrass myself and could move in those circles with the same poise as I would in something cheaper and less formal. In a lot of ways, I’m a son to him.”

Understanding dawned on Patrick’s face.

“I would love to eat in the city’s fine dining restaurants. Just once, if only to say I was there,” Delara murmured, shifting position so she could face Richie. “But until then, I think you should kiss me and let me watch you fuck Patrick.”

“As you wish, my lady,” Richie said, and then kissed her before moving to fill her wish.

In the morning, Richie treated them to breakfast at one of his favorite breakfast cafés in the neighborhood, a restaurant they had not known existed since they ate breakfast at home.

“Why do I get the sense you have a plan for the day?” Patrick asked as he sipped his coffee.

Richie laughed. “I don’t, actually. Just want to spend today and tonight with you and Delara, unless you have other plans.”

“I thought you worked today?” Delara asked.

“I asked Duncan if I could have the weekend off,” Richie explained as their server delivered their orders. “I wanted to spend it with you since it’s my birthday today.”

“Have you told him about us?” Patrick asked, worried.

“Yes.” Richie considered the pile of pancakes he had been served. He used his fork to cut through the six-pancake stack and tasted it before dipping it into the mess of whipped cream and cut fruit that had topped the stack.

“And?” Delara prompted, ignoring her Greek omelet.

“And he’s happy for me,” Richie said firmly. To Patrick, who had just taken a bite of his waffles, he asked, “How are your ham-and-cheese waffles?”

In reply, Patrick pulled his plate closer, put a protective arm around it, and said, “Go away, I’m not sharing.”

Richie laughed as Delara’s eyebrows went up. “That good?” she asked.

“Ditto for you, love. It’s like a ham and cheese sandwich in a waffle.”

“Good thing I’ve had them before,” Richie noted, amused. “You two need to get out more. I feel like I know your neighborhood better than you do.”

“Clearly,” Delara said, amused. “Do you and Duncan compare notes on places to go?”

Richie nodded. “He can cook, but his stuff tends to be simple, stick-to-your ribs stuff. He also hates cooking for himself. He wanted me to live with him again, but I didn’t really want him to know that much about me.”

“How long has it been since you lived with him?” Patrick wondered.

“Twenty years. I almost turned him down when he asked me if I wanted to run a new dojo with him,” Richie revealed.

“How come? From what you’ve told us about him, he seems decent,” Delara said.

“Mostly because it’s been over a decade since I last spent a considerable time around him,” Richie said. “We lost touch for five years, too, and this is his way to reconnect with me.”

“Not satisfied with just emailing and video chatting?” Patrick asked, surprised.

Richie chuckled. “To be fair, I did miss being around him and I missed this city, too. I was working for mutual friends in Paris, and the dynamic I had with them was different. Duncan and Seacouver have always been home to me.”

“Do you ever wonder where you would be if he hadn’t become your legal guardian?” Patrick wondered after swallowing another bite of his waffles.

Shaking his head, Richie said, “No, because I know exactly where I’d be – if not dead by now, I’d be in and out of jail. Foster children are more likely to commit crime and wind up in prison, especially since they tend to be kids who don’t get support with simple shit like school supplies, clothes, and help with homework. I don’t know the statistics, but I know what I lived, which is why I’m a huge supporter of the Seacouver Children’s Alliance, which gives foster children help with that shit.”

Delara and Patrick nodded in understanding.

“Since we have the day – where would you go if you weren’t with us?” Delara finally picked up her fork and ate.

Richie considered his options. “Have either of you been to the farmer’s market downtown recently?”

“No,” Patrick said, glancing at Delara. “It’s been on our list, but we really don’t get that far out of our neighborhood.”

“I’d love to go,” Delara volunteered. “Especially if I can find feta cheese as good as what’s in this omelet. I saw on the menu everything here is locally sourced, so the Old Town Market would likely have something close.”

“Definitely,” Richie agreed. “I usually buy as much as I can from the Old Town Market. The grocery store up the hill from me doesn’t have nearly as good a selection of fresh food.”

“Are you living downtown, then?” Delara asked. At Richie’s nod, she said, “Then it’s easier for you.”

“I don’t buy that argument,” he countered, shaking his head. “When I first moved in with Duncan, he was living south of downtown, and he and Tessa made a point of going to the Old Town Market. I didn’t understand – there was a perfectly good QFC a few blocks away – but after a few months with them, I realized there’s value in going directly to the farmers. For one thing, it means I know my vegetables haven’t been sitting in a climate-controlled warehouse getting force-ripened.”

Patrick looked surprised. “That matters to you?”

“I ate a lot of food other people threw out when I was homeless and starving,” Richie said flatly. “Now that I have money and choice, I’d rather not waste the opportunity I have.” He grinned. “Besides, if I have to eat my vegetables, I’d rather feel like the money and effort I spent getting them was worth it.”

Patrick laughed. “You have a point. Okay, so we’ll swing by the house and get some reusable grocery bags. I assume you know a good place to park?”

Richie nodded. “There’s a garage two blocks away, but it’s an attended lot, and I usually park there.”

“Makes sense,” Delara murmured. “Right now, though, can I sample that pancake? It looks epic.”

Grinning, Richie pushed his plate towards her while Patrick guarded his plate. Patrick eventually relented, letting Richie and Delara have the last two bites of his waffles.

“I need to figure out how to make these,” Delara announced, savoring the taste of the waffles. “Now I wish I’d been more adventurous and ordered them.”

“We could come back tomorrow,” Richie offered.

Delara shook her head. “No, you said you had brunch with Duncan.”

“And you can’t come here without me?” Startled by the implication, Richie frowned and added, “Just because I took you here first doesn’t mean there’s a monopoly on coming here without me.”

“You wouldn’t be offended?” Delara asked anxiously.

“No. I might tease you about it, but only in a ‘wish I could have been with you’ sort of way,” Richie said. He glanced at Patrick, sensing Delara’s hesitation had everything to do with him. “Do you get upset if she goes someplace without you?”

Patrick flushed, embarrassed. “She used to go to all these restaurants and nifty places on her lunch break, and then never wanted to go with me when I wanted to go because she’d just been there. It’s why we stopped going anywhere.” He took a breath before adding, “I didn’t realize just how bad it had gotten until you started taking us places.”

“I like that you’re taking us places we wouldn’t normally go,” Delara noted, looking at Richie.

“And if I wanted to take one of you out someplace the other doesn’t want to go,” Richie asked, “would that mean we don’t go at all? That doesn’t feel right. It’s what leads to resentment. Plus – you two do things without me, and I like hearing about it, but I don’t feel the need to be glued to your side all the time. That’s not healthy, either.”

“Hadn’t thought about it that way,” Patrick admitted. He smiled ruefully as he admitted, “Sometimes I need someone to point out how stuck in a rut I’ve gotten. Feel free to point that out to me anytime, Richie.” He reached across the table and squeezed Richie’s hand in gratitude.

* * *

Old Town Market was Seacouver’s largest continuously operating farmer’s market. Besides the produce stalls, they had dairy, meat, and seafood vendors with permanent locations. Shops selling jewelry, soaps and shampoos, clothing, gifts, spices, music, books, and souvenirs, and restaurants that featured the food vendors rounded out the market. Familiar with the market, Richie resisted the temptation to rush his lovers through the market and instead let Delara and Patrick discover everything.

As he had expected, Delara and Patrick bought more than just food, but other items they found. He bought Patrick and Delara little gifts, overriding their objections it was his birthday weekend and he should be the one getting gifts, not giving them. He was pleased to see Delara did not take off the necklace he had bought her, and that Patrick kept toying with the leather-and-bead bracelet Richie had found for him. For his final gift to them, he brought them to the market’s spice shop.

Delara’s eyes grew wide as she surveyed the extensive collection. “Patrick, Richie – they have sumac! And dried rose petals! And oh my God, they have everything.” She kissed Richie. “You realize you’re not taking us out to dinner. I have to cook tonight.”

Patrick asked, “Was that your secret plan?”

Richie barked a laugh. “No. I just know this is where I’ve been shopping for spices since Tessa introduced me to this place. She was very particular about what dried spices she used.”

“Uh huh, sure –” Patrick’s attention was caught by a display of saffron. “Holy mother of camels. I don’t think I’ve ever seen saffron that cheap that looked that good.”

One of the store clerks hovering nearby interjected, “We import everything ourselves, but we also belong to a consortium of independent spice shops, which helps us find high-quality suppliers and gives us discounts on certain items. That saffron is from a free-trade cooperative in Morocco and is from the spring crop we got earlier this year.”

“I have to get this, but even so, I know we’ll go through it like water.” Patrick hesitated.

Seeing his hesitation, Richie said, “If it means you two make saffron rice like you did a few weeks ago, I’ll happily pay for whatever you need.”

“Delara, how much do you need for that?” Patrick asked, pulling Delara’s attention away from the displays of other spices.

“For what? Oh, damn, we have to get that too! Mom’s been saying she needs a better place to get saffron since she doesn’t think we can go back to Iran with the way things are right now politically. I’ll have to tell her about this.”

It didn’t take long for them to complete their selections.

“Okay, after that, we need to get going,” Delara declared. “I think we’ve bought enough for dinner and then some.” Turning to Richie, she said, “Thank you again. Next time you want to go shopping here, let us know.”

“I will,” he promised her.

Dinner that night was roast lamb accompanied by saffron rice and Persian-spiced roasted vegetables. Always willing to learn and help, Richie helped Delara and Patrick cook their meal. He fell a little more in love with them that night, enough he was sure walking away from them would hurt more than he wanted to imagine. He could see himself spending evenings with them, prepping meals, gently teasing each other over the differences in their techniques, and sitting down to a delicious, home-cooked meal.

“Would you mind saying grace, Richie?” Delara asked once they had put everything into serving dishes, set the table, and sat down.

“Bless this food and the company to share it with. Many thanks for the gifts You have given to us. May we always be so blessed. Amen,” he recited, abruptly grateful that he had long ago memorized a script suitable for such an occasion. He meant it every time, though, and it always sounded different each time, so he figured it was ok if he used the same words.

“Amen,” Patrick and Delara echoed.

“Do you attend any church or religious services?” Delara wondered as they ate.

“Only at holidays, if I’m with people who attend such things. Duncan is Catholic, so he likes it if I go with him once in a while.”

“Wait, your boss and former guardian is Catholic, and he accepts you’re not straight and that you’re dating more than one person?” Patrick looked astonished.

Richie chuckled. “Duncan’s religion is only part of who he is. He’s seen a lot and understands that the world is bigger than what his religion and his family taught him to be.”

“Were you ever afraid he wouldn’t accept you?” Delara asked.

“A bit,” Richie admitted, lifting a hand to underscore his words. “I hadn’t seen or talked to him for five years before last fall, and when he called a mutual friend to say he would be in Paris for Christmas, I was a nervous wreck. He was the last person I came out to as bisexual.”

“How did he take it?” Delara wondered.

“Told me he’d wondered if my string of girlfriends was my way of hiding in a closet.” Richie shook his head. “I told him, no, my string of girlfriends was because I liked sex; he just wasn’t around when I was dating guys. He laughed and said he hoped I’d find someone who appreciated my energy.”

Delara and Patrick grinned. “Sounds like he understands you well,” Patrick surmised.

“He does,” Richie confirmed. “I look up to him a lot. He and I have butted heads in the past, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve appreciated more why he tried so hard to prevent me from making the same mistakes. I’ll be happy to see him in a relationship.”

“Is he looking?”

“Yes, but he puts a lot of stock in accidental meetings. Says it’s fate if he meets someone that way. I told him if he uses a dating app, then he’s less likely to run into someone who doesn’t share his values.”

“That’s for damned sure,” Patrick agreed. “I never would have met Delara if it weren’t for that BestMetYet dating site.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard of that one,” Richie exclaimed, recognizing a popular and well-advertised dating site that had been around for several years. “How many dates did you go on before you decided you wanted to keep going?”

“We lost count,” Delara admitted with a laugh. “We just kept seeing each other every Friday and six months later, my parents were saying, ‘Delara, stop saying you’re not in a relationship.’”

Richie smothered a chuckle. “The way you two are, I can’t imagine a time when you weren’t together.”

“Oh, I had my existential crisis,” Patrick assured him, his expression wry. “I’d only dated one other woman besides Delara, and I’d thought it was a fluke sort of thing. I cried on Loriann’s shoulder about it and she was like, ‘Duh. You can let her use toys on you, so you don’t miss getting fucked. Or you can open up your relationship and then you really won’t miss anything.’” Patrick looked at Richie. “I’m really glad you’re here with us, Richie.”

“Me too,” he said, grinning. “Pass the vegetables, please?”

That night, Richie made love to Patrick and Delara, wanting to go slow so he could savor every moment. He had the sense that a timer had started, ticking away when they had together. His longest relationship had lasted a year and a half; his average was usually three months. Silently, he hoped this time would be different.


	6. Chapter 6

#### Sunday, September 22

Aware he needed to leave to meet Duncan for brunch, Richie made his way downstairs, careful not to wake Delara. Richie hadn’t seen Patrick and was hoping his absence meant the other man was in the kitchen, getting coffee, since Patrick woke earlier than Delara did, even on weekends. Richie’s heart sank when he saw his sword and his knife on the dining room table.

Patrick stood with his arms crossed, his look demanding explanations. “I went to pick up your coat, wondering why you always left it on the floor, but it felt unusually heavy for a motorcycle jacket. I thought you had some heavy armor, and that was why you didn’t think it would be good to hang it up in the coat closet, but then I found the handle of your sword and started pulling. After I pulled that out, I saw the sheath in your motorcycle boot. Both weapons are wickedly sharp – I nearly cut myself – and I don’t get why you would need either of those. I might see a gun, but not a knife and a sword.”

“I like to pretend I’m a modern-day knight?” Richie tried, but Patrick didn’t buy it.

“I wasn’t born yesterday. You look like someone half your age. You work a job that on average pays about $38,000 a year, but your clothes aren’t from some high-end used clothing store. Your choices in motorcycle gear aren’t cheap either; your helmet alone is over $200. The address on your driver’s license is in the Wilburton House, in a penthouse that last sold for five million dollars six years ago.”

“It’s Duncan’s; he gave it to me to offset my salary,” Richie divulged, hoping that would be enough to satisfy Patrick.

“Even accounting for that, the property taxes on that place aren’t cheap.” Patrick let that settle in a moment, then shook his head at Richie’s unfazed expression. “You don’t even look worried about that. You ride a brand-new motorcycle that cost as much as a mid-priced sedan. You don’t worry about paying rent, seeing the doctor, or buying a fifty-dollar bottle of wine – and don’t think I didn’t notice you buying that bottle at the winery for our picnic and passing it off as nothing. Hell, what you spent on us yesterday, between breakfast, the spices, and the gifts – you acted as if a several hundred dollars wouldn’t break your bank account. Me, yes, I get paid well as a mechanical engineer, but I’m still looking at the bottom line and thinking: damn, I can’t imagine paying $100 on saffron at once, even if we do use it.”

Annoyed by the questioning, Richie countered, “Patrick, Duncan pays me well. He knows I could make more elsewhere.”

“Doing what?”

“His cousin would pay me to sell antiques in New York, for one. I could go back to Paris, for another, and be the lead bartender at Sanctuary again. I was making €56,000 a year there.”

Patrick blinked, surprised. “Really? Is that comparable in dollars?”

“In dollars, it’s a bit more,” Richie said with a nod. “I remember what it’s like to be broke and homeless. Duncan also taught me how to be careful with credit cards. I’m not poor anymore, Patrick, but I’m not rich the way Duncan is. I have to work hard for everything I have, but I’m careful about what I spend my money on.”

Patrick studied him. “You don’t mind spending your money on us, then.”

“Hardly. I like to spoil my lovers when I can, within what’s reasonable for my budget and them. If you told me you didn’t want to eat at some five-star, white-tablecloth restaurant, I wouldn’t bother. If you said you never wear button-down shirts, I wouldn’t buy you a tie or cuff links, because it’s a waste.” Richie grinned, but his smile faded as he realized Patrick was not willing to let go of the discussion.

“That’s just it, Richie. You make me wonder. You said yesterday it’s been twenty years since you spent a lot of time with Duncan. What happened?”

“I wanted to race motorcycles, chase after women, and travel the world. He wanted to move to Australia, follow a friend he had a crush on, and see if they had something. We wished each other luck, said we’d see each other in Paris or New York. We’ve always been good about staying in touch, but his relationship didn’t work out. He took it hard, went home to Scotland, and didn’t talk to anyone for a few years. We have a network of good friends, so it’s not like we weren’t aware of where the other was.” With an effort, Richie kept his voice even, aware he needed to keep a lid on his temper before he said things he would regret.

“Why Paris or New York?”

“Duncan’s cousin is in New York, and our circle of friends is based in Paris. I don’t understand why this history matters to you, Patrick. It’s old news.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow. “To you, but it’s new to me. You present yourself as this guy who has an unusual job who just happens to be lucky. I don’t believe in luck or fate; what you get in life is what you put into it. What do you owe Duncan?”

“I don’t owe him anything other than saving my ass from becoming a statistic on former foster kids turned runaways turned juvenile offenders. That debt has been paid in full. While I’m grateful he offered me the job of dojo business manager – if I quit tomorrow, he wouldn’t hang it over my head like a noose.” Richie went to retrieve his weapons, but Patrick placed a hand over them, stopping him.

“No, I don’t think so,” Patrick declared. “Not if it gets me the answers to the things I’ve been wondering about. Exactly how did you meet Duncan?”

“I broke into his antique store and tried to steal a sword from him,” Richie replied, and watched Patrick’s expression change to disbelief.

“You did what?”

“You heard me, Patrick. Instead of pressing charges, Duncan and his cousin, Connor, picked me up off the street, took me home to meet Duncan’s girlfriend, Tessa Noel, and convinced me I should stay with Duncan and Tessa.”

Patrick’s eyes widened. “You were really a thief?”

“Yes. Now, Patrick, I really need to get going or I’m going to be late.”

“If you don’t owe Duncan, you owe someone or you’re into some crazy shit.” Patrick tapped the sword on the table. “And this sword screams ‘crazy shit.’”

“Patrick, if I told you the truth, I’m not sure you’d want to still be with me.” Richie hesitated before adding, “I’ve been through this before with someone else. I know you’re not them, but they thought they could handle it until they saw what it really meant. I have the sword and the knife because I need to defend myself, and if I had to, you and Delara too.”

Patrick stared at him. “Are you in some kind of weird gang?”

Richie barked a laugh. “No. My old gang had nothing on this. Please. Don’t ask me questions to things you don’t want answers to, because it’s stepping into Wonderland. You can’t go back to when you didn’t know its secrets and its rules.”

Patrick studied him for a long, wordless moment before surging forward and kissing him. “The look on your face says whatever it is, it’s not an easy thing to be,” Patrick said when he broke the kiss. “That there’s more you’re not telling.”

“Yes.”

Patrick shook his head. “Then don’t tell me now. I need to talk it over with Delara. I’m guessing it’s a safety issue if we know too much?”

Richie nodded. “The longer we’re involved, the greater the stakes become.” He took a breath. “For what it’s worth, Patrick, I’m falling in love with you and Delara. You’ve become especially important to me, and I’d kill to protect you.”

Hearing the seriousness and seeing it reflected on Richie’s face, Patrick’s eyes widened. “You mean that, absolutely.”

Richie nodded. “Yes.” He stepped around Patrick to pick up his sword and his knife. Patrick stepped out of his way as he returned the weapons to their sheaths and then put on his boots and coat. Picking up his helmet, he looked at Patrick. “What I will say is this: I don’t like to make promises I can’t keep. I can’t guarantee you’ll be safer once you know the truth, but you’ll be safer if I don’t keep associating with you. For that reason, I’ll stay out of your way until you tell me what you decide. You know how to get a hold of me. Stay safe, both of you.”

Richie opened the door and walked out, his heart breaking.

* * *

Delara came downstairs, seeing Patrick at the dining room table. She glanced at the bench by the doorway. Not seeing Richie’s motorcycle gear, she turned to her fiancé. “Where’s Richie?”

“Duncan was taking him to brunch at the Eden Café,” Patrick reminded her.

He looked dejected and forlorn, and Delara’s eyes narrowed. Being multilingual and a professional translator meant she paid attention to body language more than most. Patrick’s body language was screaming something was wrong.

“That’s not all. What did you say to him?” she demanded, certain he had.

“Did you know he had a sword in his motorcycle jacket?” Patrick asked her.

Delara stared at Patrick and moved closer. “And?” she asked calmly.

“You knew?”

Delara rolled her eyes. “You know I hate seeing perfectly good coats on the floor. I picked it up once and put it back as soon as I saw the sword. I don’t need to know what he’s doing with it, Patrick. It’s enough for me that he thinks he needs it.”

“You aren’t curious?”

With a deep sigh, Delara crossed her arms and looked at her boyfriend. “Why should I be? We’re right on schedule for you to decide you aren’t comfortable for the way things are going. You drove off Ethan because you got jealous of his interest in Persian food. You pissed off Brad because you doubted his sincerity. That man is a Southern boy, raised with good manners. So what if he still thinks opening the door for everyone is something he should do.” She ticked off the list on her fingers.

“You nitpick on our lovers, Patrick, to a point where I’m starting to wonder if anyone would be good enough. Yes, we had bad experiences. Jacob is a player, always will be, and we were wrong to think we’d somehow convince him to stop having a harem. Same thing with Michael, who kept trying to convince us that having a closed triad was too limiting. At the rate you’re going, we’ll always be looking for someone who can be happy with us for about two, three months, and then you’ll find something you don’t like and drive them off.”

Stunned by the accusation, Patrick stared at Delara. “This is more than just ‘something,’ Delara. Whatever secret Richie’s keeping, he said we’d be safer if he walked away now.”

Delara threw her hands up in the air, disgusted. “And you couldn’t bother to wake me up and consult me _before _you started asking questions? I thought we were a partnership, Patrick. Yesterday was one of the most amazing days of my life. The last two nights, I went to sleep wrapped up in you and Richie. As I fell asleep last night, I thought to myself,” she pressed a hand to her heart, “this is the way we should be. I fell asleep fully expecting you’d wake me up so we could say goodbye together. Instead, I wake up alone and he’s gone. Gone!” Her voice rose angrily, and she gestured wildly. “And you’re telling me he’s not coming back. You should’ve left that damn sword alone like I did. He’s a goddamned martial artist; I figured if he wanted to carry a damn sword, he’s entitled to it since he probably has the skill to use it.”

Patrick’s eyes widened. “Delara–”

“Don’t ‘Delara’ me like it’s going to do anything for you. I thought we had the triad we wanted. You had to open your mouth and ruin it. Again.” She choked back a sob. “I love you, Patrick, but I don’t like you very much right now. I’m going over to my parents; I promised to bring them some of the saffron I bought yesterday. I’ll be back later.”

She picked up her purse and coat and walked out of the house.

* * *

Duncan picked up on Richie’s mood at brunch later that day. Joe had passed on the invitation, offering to meet Richie and Duncan after church instead to watch them spar. “Something wrong with your caviar and lobster eggs Benedict?”

Richie shook his head. “It’s fine.”

“Uh huh.” Duncan sipped his wine and sat back in his chair. “I’ll believe that when you’re eating it. You’re usually asking for more toast for your hollandaise by now.”

Richie sighed heavily. “Patrick found my weapons in my coat. He had questions for me this morning, and I didn’t want to answer them.”

“But you were feeling like you had a shot at something good,” Duncan surmised.

Richie nodded and forced a smile. “Eh, better without. Less problems and juggling that way.”

“You don’t believe it and neither do I. You’ve looked more settled the past two months. I was beginning to wonder when I’d meet your lovers.”

Richie forced himself to finish the excellent breakfast dish he had ordered rather than answer Duncan. “Do you mind if we talk about anything else?” he asked pointedly.

“Come to church with me after this,” Duncan suggested.

“Sure, as long as you’re not expecting me to keep my mouth shut about the Catholic Church’s treatment of homosexuality.”

Duncan acknowledged that with a wry smile. “You’ve become a much bigger advocate of that than I remembered.”

“Mac, the last time we talked about it with any depth was ten years ago, when you were in Paris. I was still partially in the closet back then,” Richie pointed out. “You were the last person I came out to who mattered.”

“And you were afraid I’d pressure you because of my religion,” Duncan concluded. “Well, you’re welcome to join me if only to spend an hour some place where we can relax and not have to worry as much about the Game. Feel free to debate the Church’s policies after the service.”

Richie laughed reluctantly. “If it’s all the same, I’ll spend an hour in the Japanese gardens two blocks away instead. You know the area by the Temple koi pond has been sanctified.”

Duncan nodded. “I’ll drop you off on the way to the service and pick you up after. You’ve never taken heartache well, Richie, no matter how many times it’s happened to you. I’d rather you weren’t alone.”

“Worried? I’ll be fine alone tonight; you don’t need to babysit me. I’ve learned drinking doesn’t ease the heartache and getting into a fight only makes things worse, not better. Sparring with you this afternoon will help; you’ve always made me reconsider how good I think I am, and that will take the edge of what I’m feeling. I know I just have to give it some time.”

Duncan acknowledged that with a wry smile. “Connor called this morning. Said he’s heard rumors of the Game heating up again.”

Richie made a face. “It never stopped in Paris, not around Sanctuary. I was looking forward to a little more peace.”

Duncan looked at him sympathetically. “You know it gets worse in the fall and winter.”

Richie sighed. “I know.” He flashed a smile. “Guess that means I should eat while I can.” He could tell Duncan did not buy his joke, but Duncan let it slide for discussing the touring production of a new Broadway show he wanted to take Richie to see.

Sparring against Duncan later that afternoon was part of an ongoing effort to not let the Dark Quickening define their relationship, but for Richie’s sanity, Duncan had agreed to always have a third party watch them spar. Joe offered a running commentary, which also helped ground Richie in the present and not lose himself in remembered horror.

The session went a long way towards reminding Richie he was an immortal, with a dangerous life, and if he was not careful, someone would get him. He let himself glory in fighting his mentor, showing off what he had learned in the years since he had been Duncan’s student. The changes surprised and delighted Duncan, who promptly demanded to know who had taught him a particular sequence of moves.

Richie laughed. “Come on, Mac, you know I’ve been working for Amanda and Nick. You think either of them would let me slide on practicing my sword skills?”

“Amanda maybe,” Duncan allowed. “Not sure about Nick. Former police officer… hmm. He’d see a sword the same way he saw a gun.”

“Once he got over his conviction that he couldn’t love another immortal because of the Game, he became ruthless about wanting to be better at his swordsmanship,” Richie said as he waited for Duncan to strike. “And like I said, there was always someone waiting outside Sanctuary hoping for a cheap shot.” He parried Duncan’s attack, recognizing the older immortal was trying to see if he knew how to defend against it.

“I remember,” Duncan said with a nod, and attacked again. For several minutes, neither said anything as they fought across the dojo floor, advancing and retreating, until Richie scored another hit, slicing across Duncan’s bicep.

“Hey! I liked this shirt!” Duncan protested.

“That’s twice he’s gotten you,” Joe called out. “Getting sloppy in your old age, Mac?”

“No,” Duncan said, “wasn’t thinking you were this serious, Richie. Whatever happened to friendly sparring?”

Richie laughed. “What, weren’t you the one who told me I should take this all seriously?”

Duncan laughed ruefully. “So I did.” He attacked again, using moves that left Richie scrambling to defend himself. Sensing an advantage, Duncan pressed his attack.

Realizing he had little choice, Richie went for the unexpected: he let go of his sword, rolled out of harm’s way, grabbed his backup dagger, and threw it at Duncan.

Shocked, Duncan stared at the dagger, which hit his chest near his left shoulder above the heart. It didn’t kill him, but the wound slowed him down as he had to exert more force to pull out the dagger. Admiration colored his voice as he said, “Damn, Richie, I wasn’t expecting you to do that.”

“Me neither,” Joe added, impressed.

Richie stood, shaking his head as he crossed the room to pick up his sword. “Told you I’ve been challenged a lot.”

Duncan retrieved a towel from the side of the dojo and wiped Richie’s dagger clean before handing it over. “Clearly. You do realize if you miss, that move doesn’t work?”

“Yeah, but it’s in the arsenal of tricks,” Richie countered. “And considering who I might be up against if Connor’s hearing rumors, I suspect I’ll need everything I know.”

“Let’s hope not,” Joe offered. “When’s the last time you two sparred?”

“Last time he was in Paris,” Richie said.

“Last December,” Duncan clarified, “when I told him I was building a new dojo and wanted him to help me run it. But you weren’t fighting like that then.”

“Wasn’t sure if you’d appreciate that I’d added gymnastics to my sword fighting,” Richie said dryly. “And it’s really a last resort sort of maneuver, as you pointed out. Thanks, Mac.”

Mindful of the weapons they held, Duncan hugged him. “Anytime. You’re better than I remembered.”

“Yes, but does that make you worry less about him or more?” Joe wondered.

Duncan laughed ruefully and met Richie’s eyes. “A little of both, actually. We need to work on your low blocks more.”

“Great,” Richie mock-complained, but he was grinning.

In the privacy of his condo, though, the realization he had walked away from Delara and Patrick rather than tell them about immortality hit him like a sledgehammer. Unable to sleep without remembering how perfect the last two nights had been, Richie gave up on the notion. He put on his gear, mounted his motorcycle, and drove around the city until a headhunter tailed him.

Swearing, Richie drew the headhunter to a parking lot at the edge of the city. The parking lot belonged to a long-abandoned strip mall destroyed by arson. Gang graffiti belonging to Richie’s old gang marked it as theirs, and it looked as though no one had bothered to challenge that assertion, even though said gang was long defunct. Parking his motorcycle and removing his helmet, Richie waited for the brown Firebird Trans Am following him for the last five miles to park.

The headhunter who stepped out of the car embodied the stereotype of a headhunter. He was Caucasian, and had dark hair, wolf-like face, medium build, and wielded a broadsword. What distinguished him was that he had dressed himself in Richie recognized – from the time he had spent watching TV with Delara and Patrick – as a replica of Jon Snow’s battle costume, complete with the winter cloak.

“Really?” Richie asked dryly as he stepped away from his motorcycle. “You couldn’t come up with something more original than Jon Snow?”

The headhunter grinned. “You think you’re any better? You look like a cliché of a biker. I’m Stephen Clark, and your head will be mine.”

“Not today,” Richie vowed, and attacked as soon as Stephen discarded his cloak.

Stephen was a few steps above beginner level, but Richie had been fighting successfully against other immortals for twenty years. From the way Stephen fought, Richie suspected he fancied himself to be a destined fighter of some sort, hence the costume.

It rapidly became apparent Richie had him off balance. At points, Stephen looked terrified, as if he was not entirely certain of what he was doing but was bravely pushing through the fight anyway. His parries were ridiculous and reminded Richie painfully of how he had once been that unready to fight.

Within a half hour, Richie had poked more than enough holes in the thin pleather of the costume to prove that the costume was no real armor. Having done that, Richie then disarmed him and drove him to his knees.

“Who the fuck are you?” Stephen demanded.

“Richie Ryan,” Richie said, and watched the recognition flash in Stephen’s blue eyes. “Yield and live to reconsider your life choices, or I take your head. Which do you choose?”

Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “And if I yield?”

“I give you twenty-four hours to leave town and go live your life somewhere else,” Richie offered. “I don’t want your head. Even if you think this costume gives you protection.”

Stephen swallowed carefully, aware of Richie’s blade against his throat. “What if I offered you something else?”

“Leave and live, or die,” Richie said flatly, aware that some immortals bargained with favors and sex. “That’s the only deal on the table.”

Stephen stared at him, as if not sure what to believe. Finally, he said, “Live.”

Richie stepped back, moving smoothly to a ready position if Stephen attacked.

Stephen rose shakily to his feet. “Rumor said you’d take my head, Richie Ryan. I didn’t think I’d be fighting you tonight.”

“Who did you think you chasing?”

“Someone to give me the experience to fight you,” Stephen said ruefully. “I don’t…” He took a deep breath. “I don’t think this is the way I want to live.”

“Then don’t,” Richie said. “It’s only forever if you live long enough.”

Stephen chuckled ruefully and retrieved his sword from where Richie had tossed it. “Yeah. I’m beginning to see that.” He walked back to his car and opened the driver’s side door. “Why don’t you want my head?” he asked finally.

Richie smiled grimly. “Because it’s already been a crappy day.”

Stephen nodded. “Thanks.” He slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, and drove away.

Alone, Richie let out the breath he had been holding. Pulling a rag out of his motorcycle’s trunk, he cleaned his sword before sheathing it. For a moment, he deliberately let himself relax, aware he had gone out hoping for a fight and Fate had obliged. _This could have gone so much worse, _he reminded himself, _and you have no idea if Stephen is fool enough to try again._

Breathing deeply, he put on his helmet and rode away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're going to FanWorks - see you there! :-)
> 
> Due to the con, it's looking likely I won't finish the last two chapters as soon as I'd hoped. I hope you like what here's so far. Feedback (kudos/comments) = love.


	7. Chapter 7

#### Wednesday, October 3

“Delara, you’re being ridiculous,” Patrick said, aggravated by his girlfriend’s insistence he was to blame for their situation.

“Am I?” She chopped zucchini viciously. “Maybe if you’d stop thinking I’d leave you if you fell in love with our boyfriend, I’d stop being ‘ridiculous,’ as you call it.” She dumped the chopped zucchini into a bowl and chopped onion and garlic with the same angry force.

Patrick stared at her. “I don’t…. I don’t think that.”

She turned to face him, disbelief seething from her. “Really? Could have fooled me.” She set down her knife and dumped oil in a skillet, slamming it on the stove. “You’re letting Richie walk away with a vague explanation of ‘it’s dangerous.’ Well, so is fucking crossing the street in this city. I nearly got hit crossing Pine Street today at lunch.”

“That road needs a crosswalk. Delara, love–”

“NO!” she shouted. “You keep pushing me and pushing me to just accept whatever you think is best for us and I’ve gone along, thinking maybe you’re right about the other guys. But Richie’s different. He wants us to be happy, so fucking happy he’d rather break his own damn heart. Do you know how much I’ve had to tell myself not to drive over to the dojo and ask him to come back? How much I pretended that breaking off things with Brad was a mutual decision? It wasn’t, Patrick. That was all you. I loved him for his naivete and Southern charm. You know what he told me? That I should leave you, because you were going to keep ruining things. You’re so afraid I’m going to decide one day to run off with the next guy we pick to be our lover, you’re almost guaranteeing that will happen. Because I’m sick of this shit. I don’t want to talk about who will be our next lover. I want no one else besides Richie to be that guy. You need to fix this – and figure out why you think I will leave your ass.”

Patrick pleaded, “What if he’s involved with some gang, doing something illegal?”

“And? It’s not like living in this city hasn’t meant hearing about the urban legends of a group of swordsmen who fight each other in alleys and in deserted parking lots at 3 AM. What if the legends are true?”

“You don’t seriously believe that shit.”

Delara sighed as her anger popped like a balloon. “I believe a lot of shit you scoff at, Patrick, like God and magic and shit science hasn’t proven as fact yet. I believe whatever Richie is trying to protect us from isn’t something we’ll be able to avoid forever, especially if Riker starts taking Mike to Duncan’s dojo. I love you enough to never want to leave you, even when I think you’re being an ass.”

She turned up the heat under the skillet and started sautéing the onions and garlic.

After a moment’s hesitation, Patrick retrieved the package of diced, marinated chicken out of the fridge and handed it to Delara. “I don’t know what to do, Delara. I believed Richie when he said he wanted to protect us by walking away.”

“And what if he’s wrong? What if we get hurt anyway by whatever the fuck he’s involved in, just because someone saw us with him? Loriann told me her husband thought she didn’t need to know he was involved with dubious but legal financing, and she didn’t know until after he died how much of a bottom-feeding shark he’d been.”

“I don’t think this is the same.”

“But you don’t know that, do you? I want Richie back in our lives, Patrick. I want you to stop thinking I love anyone more or less than you. It’s not a goddamned competition. I’m going to marry you, not Richie, not anyone else, but I need to know what the fuck he’s trying to protect us from so I can stop hurting.”

“And what if he doesn’t want to tell us?”

“Then at least I heard it from him. You didn’t give me the chance to ask questions, Patrick, and I doubt very much he’ll want to repeat himself.”

Over the next several weeks, Patrick and Delara continued to argue, unable to come to a resolution or a compromise.

* * *

#### Sunday, November 3

After three weeks, Richie figured he would never hear from or see Delara or Patrick again. He told himself that being part of a closed triad for as long as it lasted was good enough and would serve as a learning experience for the future should he ever try again. When Stephen Clark tried again for his head the following week, having figured out that Richie was a stepping stone towards fighting a Highlander, Richie tried again to convince him to walk away. When Stephen refused, Richie took his head. The Quickening was brief, but it further reinforced Richie’s sense he had done the right thing by staying away from Delara and Patrick.

After six weeks, Richie let John Wood, one of the dojo’s two senior instructions, convince him to go on a blind date with his cousin, who turned out to be much more fascinated with Instagramming every part of their meal than Richie. Richie had left the date early, unwilling to play second fiddle; his date barely noticed.

The morning after the failed date, Richie went grocery shopping. He had just set his bags down in front of the security gate that blocked access to his building, intending to swipe his keycard, when he heard Patrick call his name.

Turning around, Richie saw Patrick stood nervously on the sidewalk to his right. In deference to the fall chill, he wore a hooded parka, khakis, and boots.

“Um, hi. I thought about texting you, but I thought it better if I just came to talk to you instead. Can we do that?”

Richie hesitated, torn between wanting to be with the man he loved and sticking to his resolve. Then he realized if Patrick was here, he needed to know where Delara was.

“Does Delara know you’re here?”

Patrick nodded. “She and I have been fighting about this for weeks. I tried to tell her that it’s not me nitpicking, but she won’t budge. She says it’s my fault we aren’t seeing you because I asked you about your weapons.”

“Where is she?”

“In the coffee shop across the street. Before you tell me to call her, I want to say something.” Patrick met Richie’s eyes. “I’ve missed you. I didn’t know how much Delara accommodated me until you showed us what I’d gradually stopped doing. I stopped showing her how much she meant to me, how much I was proud to be seen with her in public, and how much I loved her in and out of bed. You forced us to discuss that all when you walked out, but now – now it’s like there’s this hole where you fit. I know whatever you’re going to tell us is dangerous information, but –” Patrick took a deep breath before letting it out. “I still want to be with you.”

Hope soared within Richie, but he tempered it by saying, “Then call Delara. I don’t want to repeat myself.”

Nodding, Patrick pulled out his phone.

Delara arrived a few minutes later, wearing what looked like the women’s version of the parka Patrick wore. Richie swiped his keycard on the security gate and picked up a bag; Patrick hastily retrieved the other. Patrick and Delara followed him through the security gate; Delara pulled it shut behind them before following Richie to the elevator lobby.

In silence, Richie led the way up the elevator to his condo. He set his groceries on the U-shaped breakfast bar while Delara and Patrick checked out the space.

“Wow, this is huge,” Delara exclaimed. “It feels bigger than your house, Patrick!”

“How big is it?” Patrick asked.

“Twelve hundred square feet,” Richie said, “but it feels bigger because it’s laid out well.”

“That’s smaller than my house,” Patrick noted, “but yeah, it definitely feels bigger. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a condo this big. No wonder it’s considered the penthouse.”

Richie chuckled as he took off his coat, setting his sword in the hooks he had installed on the end of the breakfast bar. Quickly, he put away the groceries he had bought, storing his reusable grocery bags in their place under the sink. He then took Patrick and Delara’s coats, hanging them up in the coat closet by the door, next to his motorcycle jacket.

Patrick and Delara took seats at the breakfast bar.

“Look, we get you have a secret,” Patrick began. “What I don’t understand is why you think we won’t keep it.”

“I know you’ll keep it,” Richie assured them. “I just think once you know what it is, you might not want to stay around me.”

“But why?”

Drawing a deep breath, Richie said, “Because love isn’t always enough to put up with danger. The only way I know how to explain it is to show you. Are you squeamish about blood?”

Patrick shook his head as Delara noted dryly, “I bleed every month. No.”

Richie pulled out his knife and stepped around the breakfast bar to stand in front of Delara and Patrick. He stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside, then pulled out his knife and handed it to Patrick, who took it with a confused expression on his face.

“Stand up, please,” Richie directed.

Patrick stood, still holding the knife.

Richie righted his grip, then holding his hand over Patrick’s, stabbed himself with it. “The truth is, I’m immortal, and I can’t die by most means.”

Blood dripped onto the tile. Richie watched Patrick’s expression turn from confusion to horror. Reflexively, Patrick tried to let go of the knife, but Richie’s hand held his grip in place.

“Watch the lightning,” Richie ground out as he bent over the knife, then let Patrick pull out the knife.

Patrick stared at the knife, then at the wound he had made.

Delara and Patrick both gasped as they saw Richie’s Quickening stitch up the wound as if it had never existed.

Wincing at the pain, Richie straightened and took the knife out of Patrick’s hand, setting it down on the counter. He waited.

Patrick touched his stomach, stunned. “But… you were hurt. I hurt you.”

“And you looked like it hurt,” Delara added.

“It did,” Richie told them. “It just doesn’t stay around for long.” He moved to wipe off the knife, pulling out the towel he kept under the sink for that purpose; he would clean it more later.

“I don’t understand,” Patrick murmured. “Are you saying you could heal from anything?”

“Other than decapitation? Yes.” Richie met Patrick’s gaze. “If I die from anything else, I’ll get back up again.”

Patrick looked stunned. He stared at his hand, where blood still stained it, and moved slowly to wash it off in the sink; Richie stepped aside to let him do it. “That’s…that’s not fake,” he said finally.

“No,” Richie said flatly. “I’m not an alien, I’m not a vampire, I’m not a werewolf, and I’m not a superhero or someone who’s the result of some top-secret government experiment. It’s the only magic I know, and it’s not a trick.”

Delara studied him. She radiated calm acceptance, as if she was willing to believe anything he said. That worried Richie, but he had also already figured out that where Patrick led, Delara followed.

“Delara?” he asked. “You don’t look shocked.”

“I saw your sword and your knife a few weeks ago when I went to pick up your jacket off the floor and hang it up.” She shrugged. “I grew up here, hearing the urban legend of a group of swordsmen who fight each other in alleys and in deserted parking lots at 3 AM.”

Richie huffed a reluctant laugh at that. “I’ve always wondered if we were seen by more people.”

Delara nodded. “I’ve always wanted to believe something about that story was true. I thought you were one of those swordsmen. I don’t want you to be out of our lives, Richie. I figured you’d tell us why you felt the need to have weapons at some point. But –” Now she bit her lip and looked anxiously at Richie. “You said decapitation is the only way to kill you permanently. That explains the sword. But if I follow that line of thinking, that must mean others of your kind want you dead.”

“Some of them do,” Richie agreed. “And to answer the questions you haven’t asked yet: no, I don’t know what makes me immortal. Best answer I’ve ever gotten is that it’s magic. I was born with this ability, and until I died the first time, I grew up like anyone else. Well, except for the whole ‘foster kid turned runaway turned gang member’ part.” His smile was self-deprecating.

Delara looked at her fiancé before returning her gaze to Richie. “How old were you?”

“Nineteen. A mugger shot me and Duncan’s girlfriend, Tessa. I got up; she didn’t.” Though it had been over twenty years, the depth of his grief over her made him swallow hard. “Once my first death triggered my immortality, I stopped aging. I’ll look like this forever.”

“How…” Patrick faltered. “How long ago was it?”

“Twenty-six years ago. I died a month and three days after my nineteenth birthday.”

“How did you figure out what you were?” Patrick asked

“Duncan is immortal, too, as is his cousin, Connor. Connor convinced Duncan I needed someone to watch over me and keep me out of trouble long enough to hopefully live to a good age before I died. It didn’t work out the way either of them hoped, but Connor considers it a win because I’m a year older than he was when he died.”

“Is that why you work for Duncan?” Delara wondered.

Richie barked a laugh. “No. I work for Duncan because I like what I’m doing and he’s a good boss. I wanted to change careers and come back to Seacouver anyway. Besides, this way, Duncan can teach me things I didn’t learn the first time he tried to teach me.”

Patrick pressed a fist to his mouth before asking, “Does Duncan have the power to make you stop seeing someone if he doesn’t approve?”

“Not without a damn good reason, like ‘that person will kill you when they’re bored with you,’ or ‘they’re using you for nefarious reasons and here’s what they are,’” Richie answered. “Given he’s known me since I was seventeen, and he was right about the people I shouldn’t have been dating, I’m more inclined to listen to what he has to say. But if he told me to stop seeing you two–” Richie took a deep breath and shook his head. “He couldn’t force me to do it. Even when I was dating someone who wanted me dead, and he was trying to convince me to stop seeing her, I was stubborn enough to refuse to listen.”

Delara gasped. “Why did she want you dead?”

“Because all immortals are engaged in a war between good and evil. We call it the Game. The winner gets all the knowledge, skills, and talent of all the immortals who ever lived. The losers – well, the losers die. There can be only be one immortal left.”

Delara and Patrick stared at him, horrified. “But what about your friendships with others of your kind?”

“It’s not against the rules,” Richie hastened to assure them. “It’s just… someday, it won’t matter. Legend says we’ll someday be drawn to a faraway land, where we’ll battle to be the last. I hope I don’t see that day.”

“How old is the oldest immortal?” Patrick wondered.

“No one knows. Rumor is that he’s at least ten thousand.” Richie flashed a smile. “That’s last-of-the-Ice-Age and last-of-the-sabretooth tigers, if you care about history.” He added carefully, “I’m still considered a kid by immortal standards, since I haven’t lived past a century yet.”

“But you know people who are older than you, whom you call a friend, including…Duncan and his cousin, you said?” At Richie’s nod, Delara let out a breath. “It sounds like you’re allowed to do that, but if you can… are you allowed to be with someone who isn’t immortal?”

“Yes. Delara, when it comes down to it – there are only a few rules about immortality. Don’t lose your head. Don’t fight on holy ground; it will anger the gods and destroy everything around you; if you’re lucky, you might survive, emphasis on ‘might.’ Everything else–” Richie shook his head. “Everything else is a matter of degree. Swords are traditional weapons, and modern weapons are frowned on, but some headhunters circumvent the rules, and everyone quickly learns who they are because immortals like to gossip about other immortals.”

“By modern weapons you mean guns?” Patrick asked.

Richie nodded. “Poison and using explosives are also frowned upon, but it doesn’t stop some of the less principled immortals from using them.”

“Do you worry about someone telling other people about your kind?”

“If you ran out of here and told the media about immortals, I’m not sure if you’d be believed, or if someone would discredit you or both. I will caution you that there are a lot more immortals who have money, power, and influence than either of us know.”

“We’d be squashed,” Patrick surmised. “And blacklisted and God knows what else.”

“Not necessarily because I asked someone to do it, either,” Richie added, compassion making his voice gentle. “Plus, we have our own fan club. They call themselves the Watchers, and supposedly abide by an oath to observe and never interfere in the lives of immortals, but some of them have, for both good and bad reasons.”

“But why?”

“They want record the lives of immortals, so we’re not forgotten. So the world knows when there’s one immortal left, who that immortal is.” Richie sighed heavily. “I don’t know how that’ll work, mind you. Everyone tells me if that immortal is evil, the first thing that immortal will likely do is burn down the Watcher headquarters.”

“Because that knowledge would be dangerous,” Delara surmised. “Great. I begin to see why you might not want someone to record your history.”

Richie nodded again. “Mostly, it’s because I have issues with how close they have to be to know the level of detail required for a complete Chronicle. I owe my life to a Watcher who broke his oath, but I’ve had others who wanted to be my lover, and that’s a line I refuse to cross.”

“You know who they are?”

“Part of the deal Duncan and I have with the organization is that we know who our Watchers are. If we don’t know who they are, we have every right to report them for stalking.”

“Will they bother us?”

Richie shook his head. “No, although I’ll need to introduce you to Genevieve Rojas, who is my Watcher, and to Joe Dawson, who is Duncan's. You asked me what my secret is. Immortality is my secret. If you want to be with me, know that means sometimes I’ll fight someone, often to the death. For me, it’s not a question of ‘if,’ but a guarantee.”

“But why?” Patrick looked aghast. “All that possibility – you could live forever!”

“I’m also the student of two of my kind’s best players. I also have a reputation from when I thought the only way to survive the Game was to play it like I wanted to win.”

“Did something happen to Duncan or Connor to make you think that?” Delara asked.

Richie nodded. “Connor was out of the country when Duncan overloaded and lost his mind. I didn’t have anyone of our kind to contact to ask for help when that happened, and even if I had – I’m not sure I would have been inclined to trust them. I got a reputation for picking fights and winning; I spent a year convinced I had to get better at playing the Game because the next time Duncan saw me, he’d succeed in killing me.”

Delara gasped, shocked. “He almost killed you?”

Richie nodded. “Yeah. When we fight, we gain the knowledge the loser had through a transfer of their Quickening. It looks like lightning gone berserk, feels like you’re getting electrocuted, and if you’re not ready for it, it can overwhelm you and make you lose your mind. It happened to Duncan, and he became evil instead of good for a few months.”

“Yet you’re friends?” Patrick asked, stunned.

“I forgave him a long time ago,” Richie noted quietly. “And we’ve done a lot of talking and figuring out what works to keep that friendship going. One compromise is I can’t spar against him, even for practice, without having an audience. Running a dojo together is part of that ongoing effort – not to make up for the past, but to fix things so we’re stronger together than we are apart. He’s over four hundred years old; we have friends who are much older.”

Patrick studied him. “Am I correct in understanding your Game means you have to kill another of your kind to survive?”

Richie met his gaze. “Yes.” He saw the question in Patrick’s eyes and held up a hand. “I won’t ever give you a number, Patrick. You’ll want names next.” Richie shook his head. “I won’t give you those either. Trust that the number is greater than zero and that I have few regrets about taking their heads.” He held his breath, waiting for the rejection he was certain to come.

Patrick swallowed hard. “I can’t imagine you wanting anyone dead, but I…” He pursed his lips. “I don’t know what I would do in your shoes. All I can think about is if the police found out, they’d arrest you for murder.”

Richie shrugged. “They’d have to prove I did it.”

“What about DNA?” Patrick wondered.

Richie smiled thinly. “Vaporized by the Quickening lightning.”

Patrick and Delara looked startled.

“But it’s not like you’d starve or be broke if you didn’t play your Game, is it?” Delara asked, concerned.

“If someone came and challenged me, I have options: I can accept their challenge and fight. I can renegotiate and see if they’ll take my offer. I could do a combination of the two, depending on how the fight goes, but it’s not always worth it. Or I can run away and hope they don’t chase me.” Richie hardened his voice. “If they’re like I was, they’d keep pushing until I took the challenge. Or be like the ones I met my first year living with Duncan, who were not above using me as bait.” He took a deep breath before adding, “Duncan is one of the two Highlanders, and because he and his cousin are among the best in the Game, they’re prime targets.”

“It doesn’t sound as if you don’t have much of a choice,” Delara realized. “Is anywhere safe?”

“Safe is relative,” Richie pointed out. “Look at the news recently. But most immortals respect holy ground, which any place sanctified to honor the gods or ancestors.”

“No fighting in Stonehenge,” Patrick half-joked.

Richie barked a laugh. “No. I’ll have to ask a friend if anyone’s tried. I’ve heard most immortals who live in Washington, DC find places out of the District to fight.”

“That means there are places that aren’t holy ground where most of your kind won’t fight,” Patrick said, grasping at that hope.

Richie nodded. “Airplanes and major airports are another, because you’d either bring down the plane or you’d cause such a spectacle or both that you’d have everyone looking for you. That will last until someone gets away with it.” He took a deep breath. “Going back to the subject of the Watchers. They keep the histories of all the immortals. The organization is well-funded and global, but its headquarters are in France. They all swear an oath to observe and record and never interfere in the lives of immortals, but–”

“They’re human,” Patrick surmised. “So you have these Watchers keeping tabs on you and you don’t necessarily agree with what they’re doing?”

“Not a hundred percent, no. Like I said, I’ve had a few try to get too close, as in, in my bed too close. But I’ve had others who have been genuine friends. They’ll try to recruit you. Please tell them to fuck off.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to think about what you’ll put in my Chronicle versus just enjoying the time we have together,” Richie said flatly.

“Oh.” Patrick winced. “Is it easier with just friends?”

Richie nodded. “I don’t worry about it as much. Something about knowing how I like to have sex crosses the line for me.” He looked at Delara and Patrick. “The bigger issues: because you’re with me, you might become a target for headhunters who want to use you to get to me. The other thing is: sometimes, I’ll come home, jazzed up by winning, and I’ll want sex to celebrate. My last lover eventually broke up with me because he hated seeing my sword against the bed and my coming home after a fight with another immortal ruined his fantasy of dating a modern-day knight.” Richie met their gazes. “Think about that; I’m going to take off my boots and do a few other things. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Richie exited the kitchen, using the time to remove his boots, go to the bathroom, and make his bed, which he had opted to leave messy since he had not expected anyone to see it. He then moved over to the guest bedroom, which he had set up as a combination exercise room and office, and checked to see if the guest bathroom was still stocked, for lack of anything else better to do. Patrick and Delara were huddled together in the living room, whispering.

He caught Delara angrily saying, “We went over this already, Patrick! What more do you need to know?”

“Why are you not afraid of this, Delara?” Patrick hissed.

“Because I trust Richie,” Delara said. “Either you do, or you don’t, Patrick. From the sounds of things, he has no way to know when the next headhunter shows up any more than he knows when the next person to crash into our car will be.”

Richie stepped into the living room in time to hear her say that. “Actually, I do have some warning when another of my kind is near. I can’t explain it other to say it’s like a neon light flashing in my head.”

“Does it go away if you know the person?” Patrick wondered.

“It gets less, but it’s still there,” Richie admitted. “But to Delara’s point – I don’t know when the next headhunter will show up. I might get advance warning from one of my friends; I might not.”

“Is there anyone we could talk to besides you about how to increase our awareness?”

“Duncan, and our friend, Joe Dawson,” Richie said. “Like I said, Joe’s a Watcher. He could give you a lot of perspective. I’ll take you to meet him at his bar if you’re interested.”

“I’d like that,” Delara said as Patrick nodded. “You mentioned your Watcher is Genevieve?”

“I’ll ask if she wants to meet you. She sometimes hasn’t wanted to know my lovers.”

“How come?” Delara wondered.

“Because she goes through periods where she wants to draw a firm line between her oath and her friendship,” Richie noted. “I like her enough to respect her for that.”

“But Joe doesn’t have that problem?”

“Not anymore, no.” Richie looked at Delara and Patrick. “I know it’s a lot to take in at once.”

Patrick moved to stand before Richie. “Part of me thinks I should have never asked you about your sword, that I should have listened when you warned me it was like stepping into Wonderland. The other part –” He took a deep breath. “The other part wants to just hold you and love you.”

“Which side is winning?” Richie prompted.

“The part that says I nitpick everything,” Patrick said ruefully, shaking his head. “And I can’t seem to just take things at face value and accept no one is perfect. I don’t know how to go from here except –” He glanced over his shoulder at Delara before returning his gaze to Richie. “I meant what I said earlier. There’s this hole where you fit, Richie. I need you in our lives. I want you to be a witness at our wedding next month, so you can celebrate with us, and later that night, be with us as we take the next chapter together.”

Richie looked at Delara. “Are you going along with what he wants only because he wants it and it’ll make him happy?”

Delara closed her eyes briefly as she sat upright. “No. I can see where you’d think that; it’s one of the reasons he and I have argued over the years. I let him get away with turning us into homebodies and I let him get away with pushing our lovers away, but I don’t want to do that this time. I want you, Richie. If I’d met you before I met him, I’d still want you.

“You make me believe I’m strong enough to be beautiful and sexy and confident. I’ve missed you, Richie. I love Patrick deeply, and I’ve fallen in love with you. If that means I risk my life and Patrick’s to be with you – I’ll take that chance. I don’t want to be without you anymore.” She looked at Richie and reached for his hand. “I don’t want to think about you coming home alone to this empty condo and telling yourself you did the right thing by walking away from us. I don’t want to think about you fucking someone else other than us, pretending like they’re good enough. They don’t know you love so deeply you’re willing to die for it.” Her voice rose in fierceness with every word. “If that means you kill every immortal who dares to stand between us and you, I’ll damn well put on gloves, dig the graves, and hire the best damn lawyers so you’ll never spend a night in jail ever again. If Patrick won’t do it with me, I’ll tie him up, so he doesn’t get in our way.”

Richie stared at her, amazed. To Patrick, he asked, “Would you stand her way?”

“Hell no,” Patrick swore. “Please, Richie. I love you and I love Delara. Whatever time we have with you, whatever troubles your immortality or hell just being alive bring you, please promise us we’ll talk it over and figure out how to handle it.”

“Some things about immortality, I’ll warn you now, I won’t talk about much, if at all,” Richie warned them. “You need plausible deniability when the police ever come knocking, so you can honestly say you don’t know.” He took a deep breath. “But I love you both, I’ve missed you, and I’d very much like it if you stayed for dinner.”

Patrick rose and kissed him. “If I start asking too many questions, please tell me I’m pushing. I like knowing how things work; it’s why I’m a mechanical engineer.”

Delara waited her turn. Richie kissed her deeply before drawing her and Patrick against him, breathing in their love.

The trio savored the moment before Delara reluctantly broke it. “You said something about dinner?”

Richie nodded. He moved to the kitchen and gathered the ingredients for the finishing touches on the coq au vin he had planned to make that night anyway. “I usually cook on Sundays and put something together I don’t mind reheating later in the week,” he told Delara and Patrick.

“Anything we can do?” Delara asked.

Richie smiled at her before answering. “Decide if you want rice or noodles with this? It’ll take me about half an hour to cook the chicken. I stuck it in the fridge to marinate this morning.”

“Noodles, definitely,” Delara said. “Your pantry cupboards are–”

“That closet at the end, and the pasta pot is in the bottom cupboard to the left of the pantry.”

“Good grief, Richie, this is bigger than most apartment pantries I’m used to.”

Richie chuckled. “Penthouse, and Duncan always prefers his kitchens to have enough room to store everything he might ever cook.”

“Anything I can do?” Patrick asked. “Since it seems you have this under control?”

Richie stole a quick kiss. “Sit at the breakfast bar and look pretty until we need to set the table?”

Patrick barked a laugh. “I suppose I can do that.”

Richie pulled out the Ziploc bag with the wine-marinated chicken out of the fridge and dumped its contents into the stew pot. Suspecting Patrick was incapable of sitting still without his analytical mind spinning, Richie waited until the stew mixture had come to temperature before he glanced at his boyfriend. “Or you can ask the questions about immortality I know you’ll have the longer you think about it.”

“How many of your kind are there?”

Richie shrugged. “I don’t have exact figures, but we’re at least several million strong.” He took a deep breath. “I need to mention something else here, in case I haven’t done it before. I can’t get sick; I heal from everything. Either of you get sick enough to be contagious, I won’t catch it. I also can’t sire any children. No one knows how immortal children get born or found.”

Delara and Patrick exchanged glances. “You don’t really need to use a condom with us, then.”

“No, but I do like using one because it’s less messy.” He flashed a quick smile.

Delara looked at him. “Would you be upset if I got pregnant?”

“Only if you were pregnant by someone not Patrick,” Richie said seriously. “Do you two want kids?”

“Yes, but if it means more danger for you,” Patrick began, but Richie shook his head.

“Don’t let my immortality stop your dreams. I’ll talk to Duncan and Connor, see what they have to say about it. I know Connor’s raised a child a few times, more than Duncan has, and another friend of ours, Amanda, has been mother to other people’s children more than once.”

“Speaking of Duncan, when will we meet him?” Delara wondered.

“When do you want to?”

“We could meet him for brunch on Sunday, if that works?” Delara suggested. “That way, we’d be together, and it could be some place neutral for all of us, like the breakfast place in our neighborhood.”

“I’ll text him and ask after I’m done cooking,” Richie said. “Which leads to – I assume your family goes all out on Thanksgiving, Delara, since it’s a big American holiday?”

“Oh, yeah. My mom’s been asking if you and Duncan would be coming, since everyone who comes to dinner on Friday nights regularly usually gets invited to our Thanksgiving dinner. I’ve been stalling, telling her that you and Duncan work a lot of odd hours,” Delara admitted.

“Are you out as poly to your parents?” Richie wondered.

Delara drew a breath. “We don’t talk about it, but my mom isn’t stupid. She’s worried that Patrick’s friends seem uncommitted to staying our friends, but as long as we keep it PG in their house, Mom and Dad haven’t said anything to me or Patrick.”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Richie surmised.

“I don’t think they would be surprised, honestly,” Delara said, shrugging. “They were extremely concerned I might be a lesbian because all my friends in high school and college were women, and many of those women I’m still friends with years later. They made sure to tell me that in their house, kissing was something people did in private. My parents are weird. There’s this whole world of things they accept under the heading of ‘things Americans do’ that I don’t dare tell them is stuff not everyone does.”

Richie chuckled, amused, as he set a lid on the pot and turned the stew down to simmer. Turning to Patrick, he said, “I assume we’ll only see your parents and brother if they come to the wedding reception.”

Patrick nodded. “We’ll send the invitations this week and see what happens, but if they show up, I’m not going to correct their assumptions. As we talked about earlier, we’re not out to everyone as polyamorous, and both Delara and I have invited a few coworkers.” Patrick paused. “Does it bother you that we have to hide our relationship with you?”

“A little bit, but not in a ‘I need to shout it to the world and possibly fuck up your relationships with other people’ way,” Richie said, reaching over to grip Patrick’s hand briefly in reassurance. Delara shot him a grateful look.

“Linguini or egg noodles?” she asked as she finally found the pasta section in the pantry. “And I’m glad you get that. Our last lover wanted us to come clean, like we were somehow dirty for wanting to preserve the status quo.”

“Egg noodles, please,” Richie said. “And to me, it’s only fair. I’m asking you to carry my secret, too, and that’s not anything you can tell anyone, either. More than my safety is at risk if you say anything.”

“I can imagine there are people who would experiment on your kind, trying to figure out what makes you special,” Patrick noted, shuddering.

“Duncan and Connor told me some of those experimenting on our kind in World War II were other immortals.”

“Oh, that’s just…” Delara stuck out her tongue and grimaced. “All sorts of new levels of depravity.”

“Yeah. Sorry. So, I can expect my wedding reception invitation in the mail this week?”

“And to the ceremony, too,” Delara said as she put the bag of egg noodles down on the counter and then filled the pasta pot with water. “We’d like you to be one of our witnesses.”

“I’d be honored. Send me where I need to go and what time you need me there.”

“We will,” Patrick assured him.

Richie stirred the pot of chicken in wine sauce and put the lid back on the pot. Time would tell if he had done the right thing by disclosing immortality to Delara and Patrick, but he thought he had a good chance at something that lasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants to read the wedding? Or would you rather see the six-month postscript?
> 
> Final chapter will be written and posted based on the feedback I get and after I get back from FanWorks.


	8. Chapter 8

#### Sunday, November 10

Patrick and Delara waited nervously at the table they had reserved for brunch at the restaurant near their house. Despite having stayed past dinner, Richie had not stayed over the night before, which only added to their nervousness. Richie had claimed he wanted to ride in with Duncan at brunch, since they had planned on sparring that afternoon.

“Do you think we need to worry?” Delara asked Patrick anxiously just as her phone dinged with an incoming text.

Grabbing her phone, she looked at the message. _Unexpected boat traffic at the McKinley Bridge; be there as soon as the bridge comes down._

Delara sighed in relief. “Boat crossing the lake,” she told Patrick.

“Oh.” He sipped his coffee, trying for a calm he didn’t feel. “Why do I feel like we’re meeting his parents?”

Delara barked a laugh. “Because Duncan’s the closest thing Richie has to them?”

“Right.”

Ten minutes later, Richie stepped into view, leading a tall, olive-skinned man with black hair. The stranger carried himself with unmistakable confidence and an aura of leadership. Richie wore a hip-length brown leather coat over his jeans; it was the first time Delara and Patrick could remember seeing him in something other than his motorcycle jacket. His companion wore a longer black leather trench coat.

At their approach, Patrick and Delara stood up.

“Duncan, this is Delara Mewsewa and her fiancé, Patrick Wirtz. Delara, Patrick, this is my former guardian and current boss, Duncan MacLeod.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” Duncan said, shaking hands.

“Likewise,” Delara said. Before she took her seat again, she stole a kiss from Richie.

Patrick glared at her. “I thought we would be discreet?” he asked her.

Delara feigned innocence. “You said we should be. I promised nothing of the sort.”

Duncan smothered a laugh as he and Richie took a moment to remove their coats. It didn’t escape Delara or Patrick’s notice that both immortals were careful to fold their coats in such a way they did not reveal their swords. Duncan wore black pants and a blue button-down dress shirt; Richie had chosen a long-sleeve green Henley-style t-shirt.

Their server arrived promptly to take their orders. Once that task was handled, Delara looked at Duncan. “I hope you didn’t come here thinking you could talk us out of what we’re doing.”

Duncan barked a laugh. “No, that wasn’t on my mind at all.” He glanced at Richie. “I enjoy seeing him happy. He mentioned you work as a translator?”

“Yes, for a company that does translation and cultural help for businesses. It’s not enough to know a language; you should know how to conduct business in that language to be successful in that market.” Delara paused. “I bet you get many people who don’t believe you’re Scottish.”

“I worked hard to drop the accent,” Duncan admitted, “but it comes out when I’m upset or after I’m talking to my cousin.”

“Oh, yeah. I get to sounding more Persian if I spend any amount of time with my parents. Patrick says he can’t understand me sometimes!”

“What about your family, Patrick?” Duncan asked.

“My parents grew up in a fundamentalist Christian faith that’s all fire and brimstone - queer people are abominations onto God, anyone different is a sinner, etc.,” Patrick noted quietly. “They raised me and my older brother in it, but I’m the black sheep of the family because once I got old enough, I refused to go to church. They tried to pray the gay out of me. I got my GED, asked my aunt if she’d take me in, and started college when I was sixteen just so I could get away from them.”

“Are you inviting them to the wedding?” Richie wondered.

“I’m inviting them to the wedding because part of me wants to see them flip out over Delara’s family, so they’ll think it’s their choice to disown me.”

“Because if you walked away, that would mean they could save you,” Duncan interpreted. “And if they walk away, then they have no more obligation to you.”

Patrick nodded. “Part of me wants to avoid the drama, but I don’t know of any other way to get it through to them I’ll never be who they want me to be.”

“If you need me to help you with that, let me know,” Duncan said. “As Delara noted, I don’t fit the Scottish stereotype.”

Patrick grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Richie mentioned both of you had not been in Seacouver in several years. What made you open a dojo here in the city?” Delara asked.

“I missed doing it. I enjoy teaching others what I know.” He grinned. “And I thought Richie needed to do something other than tend bar.”

“Never mind that I was happy doing it,” Richie inserted. He glanced at Duncan. “But I will admit, I don’t miss dealing with the drunks.”

Duncan grinned. “Now you just deal with the parents instead.”

Richie rolled his eyes. “Don’t get me started. You have opinions on how some of those parents act, too.”

“Such as?” Patrick wondered.

Duncan hesitated before choosing his words carefully. “In my dojo, discipline, respect, and paying attention are core parts of how I teach. I don’t tolerate my students gossiping or playing on their phones if training is in session. Some of the parents think I’m being too strict, that the kids should be allowed to goof off because they’re kids.”

“Ah,” Patrick said. “I’ll admit I don’t know much about martial arts, but I always had in my head from all the sci-fi and fantasy I’ve ever seen that it’s not like gym class where if you stop doing an exercise or two to chat with a friend, the PE teacher might not care.”

Duncan and Richie laughed. “No. Part of martial arts training is teaching the student to discipline the mind and the body so that you have the focus to execute the move,” Duncan said.

“And there are parents who think we should give their kid a black belt just for being part of the dojo since we opened,” Richie noted dryly. “It’s not a race. If they want a black belt mill, they can go across town to another so-called dojo.”

“What made you get into learning martial arts?” Patrick asked, looking at Duncan.

Duncan smiled. “I was shipwrecked off Edo, Japan, in 1778. The samurai who befriended me taught me what he knew. He gave me his sword as well. The experience inspired me to learn more.”

“But you can’t say that to some snotty parent who thinks you’re faking a Scottish last name and your experience,” Delara surmised.

Duncan chuckled ruefully. “No. Few expect a Scot to be running a dojo, or if they do, they’re expecting someone out of _Outlander._” He studied her. “You’re culturally Persian and American.”

Delara nodded. “More American than Persian, but yes, I’ve had people question my right to be here.” She paused. “Would you be offended if I asked you to say something with a Scottish accent?”

“Nae, lass,” he responded promptly, delighting her. “Are you getting the pancakes or something else for breakfast?” he added, still in the same Scottish accent.

“Okay, I’m happy now,” she said, grinning. “I only get an accent if I’ve been speaking Farsi for more than fifteen minutes and have to switch back to English. And no, I’m getting the waffles. Patrick didn’t want to share his last time.”

The rest of the meal went smoothly as Patrick and Delara got to know Duncan and vice versa. By the end of brunch, Duncan had charmed Patrick and Delara.

“You should follow us back to the dojo if you’re not busy,” Duncan offered. “That way, you can also meet Joe and Genevieve.”

“We’d love that.”

As they drove to the dojo, Delara asked Patrick, “What do you think of Duncan?”

“He’s not what I pictured in my head,” Patrick admitted, “but I like him. I can see where he’s influenced Richie.”

“I like him too, but I’m worried about this sparring. How far will they go?”

“As far as they need to, I imagine.”

Delara did not like her fiancé’s answer, but said nothing.

* * *

Genevieve Rojas looked to be in her mid-thirties. She had long wavy brown hair, a warm smile, cappuccino-brown skin, and a diamond-shaped face. She was slender but broad shouldered, with a litheness to her body. To Patrick’s surprise, she was also petite; he somehow expected Richie’s Watcher to be as tall as he was. Genevieve was a stunningly beautiful Hispanic woman, yet somehow, she vanished from Patrick’s memory even as she stood in front of him.

“Why are you hard to remember?” he asked her.

Genevieve laughed. When she spoke, her English was French-accented. “I learned how to disappear into the background as a child. My sisters are much more flamboyant; I just wanted to hide. It makes me good at what I do.”

“Do you get paid to be Richie’s Watcher?” Patrick wondered.

“A stipend to cover rent, utilities, gas, Internet, and cell phone service, nothing more, and if I’m late submitting my receipts, I risk not having any money to pay for it all. I’m expected to work at something that covers my bills and allows me maximum contact with my immortal. Richie’s an exception, since he’s willing to meet me and tell me anything I may have missed, so I get out of the ‘maximum contact’ clause.”

“What do you do, then?” Delara wondered.

“Work at a motorcycle dealership he likes,” Genevieve admitted with a quick smile. “I work in the finance office, so it’s a salaried position that actually uses my degree in finance. It’s taken me a while to feel comfortable interacting with the people he knows.”

“We don’t bite,” Delara assured her as she took the seat next to Genevieve. “I noticed your accent. Are you French?”

“Yes, I was born and raised in Nantes, which is near the Atlantic coast of France. When the Watchers recruited me to Watch Richie, he was still in Paris. I worked at the computer consulting firm across the street as its controller. It was much more convenient to meet him then. Now I have to drive to meet him.”

“Have you watched Duncan and Richie spar before?”

Genevieve nodded as Duncan went to open the door for Joe. “I must warn you that if they get to a point where it looks like they’re forgetting they’re friends, both Joe and I have permission to shoot.” She tapped the handgun she wore in a holster. “It will be very loud and sudden. I apologize in advance, but I assure you, this will only kill Duncan or Richie temporarily.”

“Has it ever gotten to that point?” Patrick asked, concerned.

Genevieve shook her head. “No, but they have tempted me. Joe stopped me. He says I’ll know when, but,” she sighed heavily, “he also was there that awful day that Duncan was out of his mind.”

Joe Dawson stepped into the dojo, ambling with a slight rocking gait. He was also not what Patrick or Delara expected in a Watcher.

“I thought a Watcher had to be…” Delara began, not sure how to phrase something without sounding ignorant.

Genevieve followed Delara’s gaze. “More mobile than Joe?” Genevieve chuckled softly. “Joe got assigned to Duncan MacLeod because Duncan stays in one place for several years. Headquarters thought he was the quieter Highlander, less likely to need someone who wasn’t disabled.” Genevieve snorted. “Nobody expected Connor to spend the 1990s in Australia, living quietly, or that every headhunter would come looking for Duncan instead. Joe proved to HQ that his physical challenges didn’t mean he was stupid or incapable of being a Highlander’s Watcher.”

Joe greeted Richie warmly before making his way over to the line of chairs set up on the sideline.

“Good afternoon, Joe,” Genevieve greeted.

“Afternoon, Genevieve,” Joe said, smiling.

Richie, who had gone with Joe to the sideline, made the introductions. “Joe, I’d like you to meet Delara Mewsewa and Patrick Wirtz, my partners. Delara is a translator and Patrick is a mechanical engineer. Delara and Patrick, this is Joe Dawson, one of the finest blues guitarists you’ll ever meet, the guy who taught me all I know about bartending, Duncan’s Watcher, and the Northwest Regional Watcher Coordinator.”

Patrick and Delara rose to shake Joe’s hand.

Joe studied them a moment before looking over at Richie. “Amanda convinced you, then.”

Richie shrugged. “Was already halfway there, given my luck.”

Joe snorted. To Delara and Patrick, he said, “I’d wish you luck, but I don’t want to jinx you. If you have questions, ask. I’ll answer the question everyone asks me: my legs were blown up by a landmine in Vietnam. I’ve known about immortals ever since.” He eased himself into the chair beside Genevieve.

To Richie, he said, “Stop worrying and go practice the low blocks Duncan wants.”

Richie shot him a look, which Joe promptly ignored, but moved to where Duncan stood.

“Do you play blues anywhere?” Delara asked as she and Patrick sat back down. “I’ve only recently gotten into it.”

“I have a club on the edge of the warehouse district,” Joe said. “Richie tends not to take important people there until I’ve met them elsewhere.”

“He trusts you that much?” Patrick asked, surprised.

“I’ve known him since he was nineteen. Genevieve’s only been his Watcher for what, the last decade?”

“Nine years, actually,” Genevieve corrected. “I was not used to someone who wanted me as a friend. Sometimes I still pull back.”

“Because you don’t want to break your Oath?” Delara asked. “Richie explained to us it’s meant as a non-interference vow.”

“This,” Genevieve gestured to the dojo, where Richie and Duncan were preparing to fight, “feels more intimate than I ever expected to Watch. Knowing you were introduced personally could be considered ‘over the line.’ Richie and Duncan do not care if HQ thinks it is.”

“They would rather have their history recorded by someone who knows them and who cares about them,” Joe finished. “And they will fight anyone at HQ who thinks we should go back to the days when immortals were not aware of us.”

Patrick looked at Delara. “How detailed are the records you’re keeping?”

“Very,” Genevieve replied. “But we have leeway on what to say. If you wanted me to list you as friends of Richie’s, without going into the degree of your relationship, I could do that.”

“No, don’t,” Delara said instantly. “He doesn’t hide who he is from his friends. I will work on being more open with my family, but we can’t expect it from Patrick’s, especially since they think I reformed him from his queerness because he is marrying me, a woman.”

“Delara, are you sure?” Patrick asked, surprised by her statement.

“If some immortal targets us because of our association with Richie or Duncan, we will betray how we feel about them,” Delara said pragmatically. She looked at Joe. “Am I right?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Are you prepared for that?”

“Not really,” she admitted, “but I figured meeting you and Genevieve means we can ask how we can, because something tells me Richie will have a harder time talking about it.”

“Only because he’s lived it too much,” Joe offered. “But he knows, and can talk about it. Mostly, it’s basic stuff – don’t trust anyone who claims to have a message from Richie if it’s not me, Duncan, or Genevieve. Don’t be offended when Richie asks to know where you are when he’s not with you.”

“Be wary of strangers who seem overly interested in getting to know you,” Genevieve offered. “Or claim to be representing the Watchers. The only Watchers that you should ever talk to are me and Joe.”

Patrick looked at her, surprised. “They’d go that far?”

“We aren’t unknown to headhunters, especially the ones who have been successful at it for the last two decades. The Highlanders have many friends, whom they told about us, and who spread the word about our existence. It’s forced changes in the way we operate,” Genevieve said, shrugging slightly. “But yes, the evil ones will use that knowledge against the loved ones of an immortal.”

Patrick considered that information. “That would add weight to Richie’s insistence on us getting to know you, so we wouldn’t fall victim to that scheme.”

Genevieve and Joe nodded. “I’d also warn you not to assume any friend of Duncan’s or Richie’s has good intentions,” Joe added. “I love Amanda dearly but she’s chaos personified when she’s bored and lonely.”

Genevieve groaned. “Yes, she’s a prime example. But there are other immortals who’d claim to be their friends, too.”

“Just so we’d trust them?” Delara guessed. “That’s just… conniving and wrong.”

“Yes, well, they rarely care about those value judgments,” Joe noted. “You’re looking at headhunters as if they’re good people. They’re not.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Delara said. “Oh, hey, it looks like Richie and Duncan are getting started.”

The fight that followed started instructional, as Duncan was showing Richie how to block low strikes, but quickly escalated into a more natural sparring session. For Patrick and Delara, the whole thing initially went too quickly to follow, since they didn’t know what they were looking at, but Joe’s commentary went a long way to explaining why an attack worked or didn’t work. By the time Duncan and Richie finished, both immortals were sweating profusely, and Delara and Patrick were in awe.

“You two are amazing,” Patrick remarked.

Richie stepped closer, but Patrick held up a hand. “Love you, but you’re dripping with sweat, and I really don’t want to hug you right now. When we’re both that sweaty, it’s different.”

Richie glanced down at his shirt, which was soaked, and chuckled ruefully. “I’ll be back after I shower. Did you want to have dinner?”

“If it’s not an intrusion on your time with Duncan,” Delara replied tactfully.

Richie glanced at his former teacher. “You go ahead without me,” Duncan said, waving off the implied offer. “I have a date.”

“Is this where I tease you about a string of girlfriends?” Richie joked.

Duncan rolled his eyes. “No. I’m just meeting someone I matched with; it’s too early for it to be anything more.”

“Oh, which site?” Delara asked as Richie headed towards the men’s locker room.

“BestMetYet,” Duncan replied as he rubbed a towel across his neck. “Richie mentioned you met that way; thought I’d try it.”

“Good luck,” Delara said sincerely. Seeing Joe rise to his feet, she turned to him. “Leaving already?”

Joe nodded. “I need to get to my club. I don’t work as much as I used to, but I like to check in on Sundays and see how the weekend went. It was a pleasure meeting you both. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” He carefully extracted a business card from his wallet and handed it to Delara. “My email and phone are on that card if you have questions.”

Delara glanced at it, seeing it named him as the owner of Joe’s Blues Bar. “Appreciate it. I’m sure we will, once all this has sunk in.”

Duncan escorted Joe out of the dojo, opening the doors for him and chatting with him before bidding him goodbye. While he did that, Genevieve looked at Delara and Patrick before pulling out her phone. “If you give me your numbers, I’ll add it to my contacts list, in case something happens,” she offered, “or if you have questions. I don’t offer this to everyone he’s ever been with, but I get the sense you two will be around a while.”

“If we have anything to say about it,” Patrick vowed, even as he pulled out his phone and exchanged info with Genevieve. “We’re marrying each other, but there’s space for Richie in our lives and hearts, and seeing him fight against his former teacher this afternoon really helped solidify what he told us.”

“Give yourselves a week to think about it,” Genevieve suggested, “and let it really sink in. What you’ve gotten into is nothing like anything else. If you talk about this afternoon, what will you say? Because you must censor yourselves.”

“That hit Richie took on his arm–” Delara started and looked at Patrick, then Genevieve. “That was not a minor hit.”

Genevieve shook her head. “Anyone else would need more than just stitches. Richie and Duncan push each other on speed of attack, but it also means they sometimes ignore minor hits.”

“But telling my coworkers I watched two friends spar with swords is okay?” Patrick wondered.

“Sure, but don’t talk about the lack of protective equipment. People who know nothing about swords will assume a lot, especially if you don’t fill in the blanks for them. Or you could pretend they were using wooden practice swords.”

“Got it. No wonder Richie said this was Wonderland.”

Genevieve chuckled roughly. “That’s one way to describe it.” She hesitated before saying, “If I were in your shoes, I’d spend dinner discussing everything you’ve seen today.”

Delara studied her, seeing genuine concern. “I’m not sure what to ask,” she told Genevieve, “but we’ll definitely be talking over dinner. One of things Patrick and I learned from our previous relationships with a third person was that we need to communicate.”

Reassured by that, Genevieve nodded in understanding.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Patrick's parents are not nice, loving, tolerant people.

#### Saturday, December 7

Based on how large the crowd had been at Thanksgiving, Richie had expected at least a hundred people to attend Delara’s and Patrick’s wedding reception, which was being held in a ballroom in a downtown hotel. Delara had explained that she was disappointing her parents by not doing a full Persian wedding ceremony, in which Patrick would have to ask her parents for her hand in marriage. Patrick and Delara’s ceremony was held in the same ballroom an hour before the reception, with a judge friend of Riker’s as the officiant. Patrick’s parents, Delara’s parents, Richie, Riker, Sharon, and Loriann were the guests for the private ceremony.

Delara, however, had worked with their officiant to incorporate some of her cultural heritage into the ceremony, which pleased her parents. Delara’s wedding gown reflected her personal style and modern Persian wedding tradition. The elaborately beaded, V-neck, A-line gown had lace sleeves and detailing. Delara’s mother had painted her hands with henna tattoos. Patrick’s tux was deceptively simple but tailored to fit and would stand up to the expected hours of dancing. Richie thought both of his lovers looked stunning and resisted the temptation to kiss them as he had when he had helped them get dressed earlier that day.

As they waited for the ceremony to start, Loriann leaned over to Richie, since she was serving as his official date for the evening. “They look gorgeous, don’t they?” she whispered.

Richie barked a laugh. “Yes,” he agreed. He studied Patrick’s parents, who looked ill at ease at seeing Delara’s more traditionally attired parents, and who kept acting as if being in proximity to a non-white couple was as dangerous as a measles outbreak. “I hope for their sake Mr. and Mrs. Wirtz don’t have a meltdown. If they keep moving out of the way, they’ll be on the other side of the room by the time the ceremony starts.”

Loriann studied the older couple. “If they stay past the ceremony, I’ll be shocked.”

Richie nodded agreement.

For the ceremony, the front of the ballroom had been arranged so there was seating for the guests. Once the bride and groom were standing in front of the judge, the judge motioned the guests to be seated.

The judge asked Patrick, “Patrick, do you take this woman to be your wife?”

“I do,” Patrick said.

“Delara, do you take this man to be your husband?”

Delara did not answer.

As Delara had coached him, Richie said in Farsi, “She is out in the field picking flowers,” before repeating the phrase in English.

Delara’s parents chuckled, while Patrick’s stared at them as if they had lost their heads.

The judge asked again, “Do you take this man to be your husband?”

“She’s busy shopping for groceries,” Riker said in English.

Again, Delara’s parents grinned widely.

The judge persisted, as Delara and Patrick had told him to do. “Delara, I ask again. Do you take this man, Patrick Wirtz, to be your husband?”

In Farsi first then English, Delara said, “With the permission of my parents, yes.”

The judge smiled. “Please exchange rings.”

Richie handed Delara Patrick’s ring, which Delara put on Patrick’s hand; Loriann handed Patrick Delara’s ring, which Patrick put on Delara’s hand.

“May these vows and this marriage be blessed,” the judge said. “May be this marriage be full of laughter, compassion, and strength to get through both good times and bad. By the power vested in me by the State of Washington, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Patrick kissed Delara, and the guests clapped. Then the marriage certificate had to be signed by the witnesses Delara and Patrick had appointed as their official signers – Riker, Sharon, and Richie. Riker was the last to sign, and when Patrick’s father, John, tried to look, nearly stepping on Riker to do so, Riker gave him the deadliest stare Richie had ever seen someone not an immortal give someone.

“If you’re thinking this document isn’t legal, I suggest you reconsider that notion, Mr. Wirtz,” Riker said evenly.

“I just wanted to look,” John Wirtz said lamely.

Riker held it up, letting John see it. John tried to take it out of Riker’s hand, but Riker stepped back. “You didn’t ask to hold it, Mr. Wirtz, and it needs to be intact for filing.” He nodded to his judge friend.

The judge stepped in with, “Excuse me, Mr. Wirtz,” and blocked the other man from physically reaching for the wedding certificate, tucking it into the pocket of his judge’s robes.

To Delara and Patrick, he said, “Congratulations, and enjoy your honeymoon,” before exiting the room.

John looked furious. To Patrick, he said, “Don’t expect us to come this way again. The only thing worse than you being some fag is marrying some foreign bitch.”

“Hey!” Delara protested. “I was born here, you idiot. And if you will spew hate, get out. We don’t need you here.”

John huffed and looked ready to spit.

“Whatever you think you’ll do, Father,” Patrick said. “Leave before you do shit I must call the police for – and if you spit on my bride, her parents, or any of our friends, I _will _call the police.”

John narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin. “Expect nothing from us, either. You get that bitch pregnant, you’re on your own.”

“I always was. John Jr. was always your favorite son. I’m surprised you even showed up. Go home, Father, Mother. You may have sired and raised me, but I’m not your son.”

“I always wanted a son,” Delara’s mother, Banu, assured him.

“I’d love that,” Patrick said, beaming.

“Bunch of goddamned foreigners,” John burst out, disgusted. He took his wife’s arm. To Patrick, he said, “Why anyone wants to associate with these people is beyond me. We’re done. Don’t expect us to call you ever again, Patrick.” His wife shot her son an apologetic look, but John snapped, “Stop looking at him!” and hustled her out of the room.

Delara turned to her husband and held him for a long moment. “I’m so sorry, love.”

“I’m surprised they showed up,” he admitted as Richie went to hug him. “But I needed to say that.”

“You did,” Richie agreed.

Tactfully, the photographer interrupted, asking for more photos, since she had taken some pre-ceremony.

Since the ballroom needed little rearranging – just moving the guest chairs back to the head table – the reception started half an hour after the ceremony. While they waited for the photographer to finish taking pictures, Richie and Riker moved the chairs back to the head table.

The photographer took one last group shot of the guests and the couple before telling them, “Okay, that takes care of the formal stuff. Enjoy your reception!”

Feeling the warning of another immortal, Richie moved to greet Duncan, who had just stepped through the door of the ballroom.

“You okay?” Duncan asked quietly.

Richie met his concerned gaze. “I keep wanting to kiss them,” he admitted.

Duncan looked amused. “You’ll get your chance later.”

“I know. Patrick’s father showed his racism at the ceremony; Mr. Wirtz and his wife left.”

Duncan grimaced at the news. “How is he?”

“Upset but Mrs. Mewsewa offered to adopt him.”

“Not surprised. I enjoyed meeting her at Thanksgiving,” Duncan noted. “Am I sitting with you at the head table?”

“Yes,” Richie said. “Loriann, Riker, and Sharon will be there, too. Loriann was looking forward to seeing you again.”

“Sounds good,” Duncan said.

The food was a celebration of traditional Persian feast favorites. A live DJ filled the dance floor with contemporary music. The wedding reception lasted all night. Patrick and Delara would honeymoon in Hawaii for two weeks, but their flight out did not leave until Monday. For their wedding night, they would spend it at Richie’s condo, with the intention he would drive them to the airport on Monday using Patrick’s car. Her parents thought they were staying in a hotel downtown; no one bothered to correct that assumption.

It was two in the morning before Delara, Patrick, and Richie stepped into Richie’s condo. In his bedroom, he helped Patrick to undress Delara, mindful of the gown’s intricate beading and lace. Underneath it, Delara wore a longline bra and lace panties, which had been presents from Richie. Patrick’s eyes widened when he saw what Delara wore underneath the dress, and he surged up to kiss her.

Richie chuckled, amused, as he gathered Delara’s wedding dress and draped it over his arm. “If that’s how you react to that, I can see us going to that lingerie shop again.”

Patrick turned to him and kissed him in gratitude. “I knew you two were up to something, but I didn’t know what it was.”

Delara smiled and reached for her husband. “I need your help to undo the hooks on this. Richie will hang up my dress and your tux, so we don’t mess them up.”

Patrick looked startled. “Giving us a moment alone?”

“Only feels right,” Richie told them. “You only get one wedding night; figured you should start the evening without me.” He held up a hand. “Don’t argue with me. I’ll be ready when you’re up for round two.”

Patrick sighed, but quickly undressed and handed Richie his tux. “You’re a hopeless romantic, Richie.”

“You say that like it’s a terrible thing,” Richie chided him. “I put condoms and the lube out on the nightstand.” He kissed Patrick and Delara, then moved out of the bedroom, shutting the door.

For a moment, Patrick and Delara stared at each other before Patrick chuckled and leaned in to kiss her. “I love you, Delara.”

“I love you, too, Patrick. Husband. Now get me out of this bra so we can consummate this marriage and then go get Richie.”

Patrick laughed again and moved closer. “Where should I start?”

“From the bottom; I’ll hold in the sides.”

The sex they had once Patrick had peeled her out of her lingerie was full of the love they had for each other.

“Which way do you want me?” Patrick asked Delara as she lay on Richie’s bed.

“Oh, let’s be traditional and do missionary,” she said, grinning. “It feels proper, somehow.”

Patrick grinned and dropped a kiss on her lips. “So it does.” He put on a condom from the stash on the nightstand, appreciating again the thinness of the type Richie bought.

The knowledge that Richie was waiting for them while they made love in his bed added a level of spice neither had expected. It left both breathless, aching for more, even as Patrick did his best to give Delara the completion she craved.

Breathing hard, Patrick called Richie’s name. Richie stepped into his bedroom, dressed only in a robe, which he promptly discarded. He joined Delara and Patrick on the bed, kissing them each and seduced them into another session wherein he was in the middle, uniting them in passion.

“Love you both so much,” Richie said breathlessly some minutes later. “So happy to watch you get married.”

“Love you too, Richie,” Patrick vowed, and thrust into him, setting off a chain of orgasmic bliss.

Monday came altogether too soon, but Richie took them to the airport with no regrets, certain they would be videoconferencing and texting him of their adventures. What the future held for them was an unknown, but he felt confident they would get through it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to end it here rather than write a six-month post-wedding scene, as I have a plot bunny nipping on my heels. I hope you've enjoyed what I've written, and I'd love to hear from you! :-) Kudos, comments (including constructive criticism), keyboard smashes, "I love this!", etc. all welcome - even when this fic is "old."
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's read it through and commented/kudoed - you made me want to finish this!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, constructive criticism, kudos, keyboard smashes, and suggestions for where this goes next all welcome. I rarely don't finish something I start posting, so please let me know what you think of this!


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